


Music of the Night

by eastwoodgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, HP: EWE, M/M, Mystery, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:25:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eastwoodgirl/pseuds/eastwoodgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Harry's 6th year, he discovers a side to Severus Snape that he never expected. Six years after that fateful night, the now-Professor Potter is back in the dungeons to learn of magic beyond what they do at Hogwarts... and perhaps fall in love as well... with a ghost of his former Potions Master? What illusion is showing in the stillness of the night? Post-DH. EWE. Snarry slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Memory of a Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: Six years ago, current Hogwarts Potions Professor, Harry Potter, discovers a dark man's secret passion. What can one vivid memory do to inspire one light hero to live a life within the depths of the dungeons? Five years after leaving school, Harry finds himself back in that shrouded, secret room, learning about music, life and love… from a spectral master? Post-DH. AU. Slash.
> 
> Warnings: Slash. Out-of-Character situations, Post- Deathly Hallows. Ignores the Epilogue, '19 Years Later'. Spoilers for all seven books. Draws inspiration heavily from the musical Phantom of the Opera but does not follow the sequence of events. No need to be familiar with the aforementioned work of fiction to understand this story. This fic has not been beta-ed.
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related registered trademarks belong to J.K. Rowling, et. Al. Phantom of the Opera is the genius of Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber. Any other recognizable elements belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.
> 
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> 
> Author's Notes: This story is completed as of 12/19/12. I am aware that I have a lot in progress when it comes to stories but this one had been sitting long enough for me not to put it out. Worry not. Writing for me is a continuous process. I will never abandon anything. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well as the others to follow. Questions and clarifications as well as suggestions are most welcome. Feel free to contact me in any way possible (see end note) including smoke signals and astral projections.
> 
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> 
> OUTLINE:
> 
> Prologue: The Memory of a Secret
> 
> Chapter 1: Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again
> 
> Chapter 2: Phantom
> 
> Chapter 3: Down Once More
> 
> Chapter 4: Angel of Music
> 
> Chapter 5: Learn to be Lonely
> 
> Chapter 6: Wandering Child
> 
> Chapter 7: All I Ask of You
> 
> Chapter 8: Past the Point of No Return
> 
> Chapter 9: We Have All Been Blind
> 
> Chapter 10: Stranger Than You Dreamt It
> 
> Epilogue: The Maestro's Reprise
> 
> LEGEND:
> 
> "Dialogue/ speech" 'Thoughts' "Singing" Notes/ flashback

**PROLOGUE: The Memory of a Secret**

The beginning of the end.

Severus Snape knew it was fast approaching, the moment he had agreed to yet again another of Albus –too many middle names –Dumbledore's hair-brained scheme.

The dungeons held many secrets, some of which would forever be shrouded in mystery and darkness –others would become known only to a select few –a few, that included the dour Potions Master.

The dungeons were his refuge –had been his refuge since he was a little boy of no more than eleven. Hogwarts was truly a majestic place, but none held as much allure and magic as the cold, dark and damp walls of the level below the Great Lake as it did to Severus. Here, he was free of those blasted Gryffindors –their straight-as-a-rod ideals; free from taunts, jeers and pranks; free from their judgment –their stereotyping. Here, he can escape his 'dungeon bat' persona and be himself: a secret known to none but himself; none but the four walls of his chambers.

Only a few have ever been in Severus Snape's chambers; and still even fewer have been in, let alone, knew of the existence of, that hidden room to the right of his private office' fireplace, obscured by an unassuming 17th century tapestry of a birch tree –in fact, if you ask the Potions Master, he would confidently tell you then that only he, knew of what lay behind that secret door. He preferred for it to be that way, hopefully, until the very end of time…

But, it was not to remain as such for eternity.

That one chilly night of February '96 became the beginning of the end for his secret. Another soul would learn of the existence of the other side to Severus Snape.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry sighed. He thought that when he had failed to get that 'O' in Potions, that he would already forever be free of his 'most-hated' Potions (the Ultimate Most-Hated title being bestowed upon a certain centaur-hating, toad-like lady named –cough- Umbridge –cough-) Professor, Greasy Dungeon Bat from Hell, Severus Snape. But no, of course the git had to get the DADA position, which Harry expectedly got the highest recorded OWL in recent history for. Now, he saw the bastard thrice a week for at least two hours a day –more, if the sodding Head of Slytherin managed to find reason to give him detention, which was almost a daily occurrence. In Harry's humble opinion, he could use a day without seeing the man glare at him with those fathomless onyx irises. In his mind, whenever he got the urge to hex the man into oblivion, his only consolation was the thought that no DADA Professor had lasted for more than a year since Ol' Voldie put a curse on the said position. Harry's 7th year, if he managed to survive for that long, should relatively be Snape-free.

But that was still half a year away, and Harry still had to endure the Potions master for a few more months –or in that day's case, a few more hours. It was Friday, he did not have DADA classes with Snape, and yet somehow, he had managed to land himself a detention with the man.

Okay, so the detention was supposed to be with Slughorn. It all started when Harry had mislaid the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book. Hermione still thought of the vandalized copy of Libatius Borage's Advanced Potions-Making as sheer evil, so she wouldn't help him at all. The walrus-like professor had run out of excuses to give his 'star pupil's' recently less-than-stellar performance –'being pressured' just did not quite add up anymore when your supposed –Amortentia started to emit noxious fumes and ended up burning the nose hairs of anyone who got a whiff of it. Half of Harry's class ended up in the Hospital Wing in various stages of disarray; and with a shake of his head, Professor Slughorn had assigned the Boy-Who-Lived detention, in hopes of 'getting him back in the game.'

For some reason though, Slughorn got off seeing to the said detention (whether it was because THE Gwenog Jones was supposedly visiting him or he had gotten his fat hand stuck in his box of crystallized pineapples, it was unclear) and thought it prudent to pass the Chosen One's punishment to his nastiest colleague who simply hated Harry Potter with passion, Severus Snape.

Based on the instructions taped on to Slughorn's office door, Harry was to report to Snape's private office, which was surprisingly (or not) still in the dungeons, at precisely 8 o'clock that night, for a productive evening of not-so surprisingly, scrubbing cauldrons; The stoic, ebony-haired man may have relinquished the Potions Professorship to Slughorn, but he was still the Potions Master of the school and still brewed the necessary concoctions for the Hospital Wing and the Castle's inhabitants upon request.

A quick 'Tempus' told Harry that it was already '8:05 p.m.'  _'Oh joy,'_  the emerald-eyed young man thought as he madly dashed towards the direction of Snape's chambers in the appointed Defense corridor down the dungeons.  _'Snape is going to skin me alive.'_

An out-of-breath Harry Potter made it to his dreaded destination, five minutes later. Without further ado, he raised his hand and knocked.

"Professor? It's Harry Potter. I'm here for my detention."

No scathing remark came. No condescending comment on Potters being above and beyond the courtesy of punctuality and wasting other people's time –neither did a polite response. Harry frowned. Was Snape in his lab, brewing? Did Slughorn forget to tell him about Harry's detention?

"Professor Snape? Professor Slughorn told me to come here to serve my detention. May I come in?"

Still no response. Harry purposely pressed his ear against the door. Not a whisper could be heard from inside. Not even the crackling of a log on fire. Was the man busy? Away? Should he just come back another night? But what if he did not show up tonight, will Snape just use that as an excuse to give him more detention? The young man shrugged. Knowing Snape, he probably will. Maybe he should leave a note on his door.

' _Wait a minute, if Snape was indeed away, he would've left a note on the door himself,'_ Harry mused.  _'He's that kind of man. I doubt he'd forget to do so even if Voldemort had called for him… What if something had happened? Maybe the git got hurt on a raid, or he got exploded on by one of his many experiments… Maybe he's passed out on his office floor, bleeding to death!'_

Such were the thoughts running through Harry's head as he paced in front of the DADA Professor's office door. IT was in a rather deserted part of the dungeons, remotely away from the Slytherin Dormitories and Snape's old Potions classroom. Harry doubted that many ever came this way unless they had to –or they wished to die a grisly death.

Should he call the attention of another professor regarding his worries on Snape? What if it was all for naught? Harry shuddered to think what the stern wizard would do to him if Harry brought half the Hogwarts staff down to Snape's quarters because of an embarrassingly false alarm.

' _Why am I caring anyway?'_  Harry thought ruefully.  _'Why should I care what happens to that git? Dumbledore trusts him, but…'_  He shook his head. The sensible thing for him to do would be to leave his note taped onto the door and head for Gryffindor Tower. That was what he should do. But when was Harry Potter ever sensible?

Harry gently nudged the closed door, half-hoping, half-expecting to find it locked.

It wasn't. Dread and confusion flooded him. Since when did Snape leave his door unwarded? The man was a very private and paranoid person if there was any that Harry knew. With a deep breath, he pushed it open. He had anticipated blaring sirens and flashing lights to come as he crossed the threshold of Snape's private domain. But three steps later, with both his eyes half-closed, he surmised that he wasn't going to be attacked. He opened his emerald eyes. If it was his Gryffindor bravado, or his innate curiosity that drew Harry towards sticky and -most of the time –dangerous situations that made him think it was a good idea to enter the surprisingly unguarded office to find out what had happened to his most-hated Potions Professor, it was unclear. What had he learned from his trip there in his fifth year? The jar of cockroaches hitting his head must've addled his brains somehow.

' _That was different,'_  his mind reasoned out. He just wanted to see if Snape was still snarky and alive…

Snape wasn't there. The fire was burning merrily in the hearth though, but there was no sign of the man in his outer office. Harry surveyed the rather familiar area –he had been there one too many times, and in those times he'd been there, nothing had changed at all.

The walls were made of stone; tidy bookshelves lined almost every part of the room, Oriental rugs in earthen colors covered patches of the paved floor. A simple yet functional desk stood in the middle of the dimly-lit space, as did a couple of thinly-padded armchairs by the hearth. There were two doors adjacent to each other. One, Harry knew, led to Snape's private laboratory; the other, most probably to the man's bed chambers. There were no portraits, no sculptures… nothing but a single tapestry of a birch tree to the right of the fireplace –not even a single Slytherin banner was present, which was quite surprising. All in all, that particular space had the feeling of being unlived in, as cold as the man who resided within those walls.

"Professor?" Harry had suddenly remembered his purpose for coming there. There was no reply, no hex that came his way. He glanced at the two doors. He shook his head again. He wasn't completely suicidal. It was enough that he came into Snape's office unannounced. He had done his duty. The man wasn't there. As Harry decided on what to write on his 'I-was-here' note to Snape though, something caught his attention on his way out.

' _Was that –music?'_  Harry scowled.  _'Music? In Snape's quarters?'_  He looked around. He could not see anything that cold produce such a sound. They say that without one's vision, one's hearing was heightened. He closed his eyes and listened.  _'A –piano?'_  He was not very well-versed in any kind of music, but he knew enough to know that the piano music he was hearing was not of the recorded type that his Aunt Petunia listened to on the classical music radio station. Harry blindly turned to one direction. His ears perked up.

' _Whatever it is that is creating the sound seems to come… from here.'_  He approached the fireplace. The mantelpiece was bare. In fact, aside from the burning logs, there was nothing else in that general direction other than the hanging birch tapestry. Harry furrowed his brows. The sound was louder near the tapestry.

' _A musical tapestry?'_  Having been given a crash course at all things magical at the age of eleven, Harry had long learned to expect the unexpected… but a tapestry that played classical piano music? He leaned in for a closer inspection.

He could hear it even clearer now that he was standing right next to the 17th century heirloom piece. The melody seemed quite familiar, now that he thought about it –it was definitely something he had heard before, but for the life of him, he could not identify the title for. He closed his eyes once more, his ears beckoning him to move closer…

The melody was hauntingly beautiful –it was slow and sensual, almost like a lover's gentle caress, a promise of eternity and romance like no other. It called out to him, reached into his heart and grabbed the beating organ by its sinews. Harry all of a sudden caught himself in an otherworldly trance. His hands began moving on their own accord, reaching for, and lifting the plain birch tapestry up. A carefully concealed, plain wooden door greeted the emerald-eyed young man's sight.

Logical reasoning and self-preservation be damned. There were many things that could go wrong when one dares to open hidden doors –they were hidden for some reason now, weren't they? Harry's adventures with the three-headed dog, Fluffy and the 60-ft. long basilisk come to mind. But the pull of the mesmerizing tune, Harry found, was stronger than anything else that made sense, never mind the fact that he was trespassing in a teacher's private quarters.

With the seemingly surrealistic sound over powering his thoughts and senses, Harry found himself gently pushing the door open.

" **Night time, sharpens, heightens each sensation/ Darkness stirs and wakes imagination/ Silently the senses abandon their defenses…"**

The low, velvety voice that rose above the melody assaulted his ears like a honeyed poison, almost making him forget his surprise at finally seeing what, or rather who, was creating that rather enchanting music.

" **Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor/ Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender/ Turn your face away, from the garish light of day/ Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light/ And listen to the music of the night…"**

The small, otherwise cold room was lit up with numerous burning candles –a striking contrast to the one before it. Shadows on the walls danced to the tune of the flickering orange tongues aflame. The sound was greatly magnified in the concealed space. It was like listening to a concerto in an auditorium.

" **Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams/ Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before…"**

Severus Snape's eyes were closed. His long, ebony hair that did not appear to be as greasy as it did when the man taught Potions day in and day out, was tied loosely by his nape with a thin leather cord; a few strands escaped though, and was framing his pale but striking face. Off were his death black robes, gracefully discarded over one end of the low bench he was sitting on like a puddle of crumpled silk. What he had on instead was a stark-white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone; what looked like a gold chain hung from the man's neck, its pendant concealed by the rest of the shirt/ The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. It looked quite rumpled. But what made that already unusual scene even more arresting were those that Harry could not plainly see from his vantage point, partially obstructed by the grand piano, by the doorway.

" **Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar/ And live as you have never lived before…"**

Possessed. There was no other word to describe the way the dark-haired man was playing that evocative melody. His enthralling voice rose to every hill and dipped to every valley of his accompaniment. His long, elegant fingers softly caressed every key, made love to every note. Harry remembered seeing the man brew during detentions when it was just the two of them alone. Severus Snape loved his craft to the ends of the earth, but it was certainly of no comparison as to how the Potions Master was now making beautiful music in that very room –He was moving like a man consumed with raging passion –a man whose true purpose and reason, he's finally realized.

It was hard to reconcile the image of the cold, heartless git to that of this impassioned virtuoso; But Harry knew deep within him that no matter how improbable it may seem, they were one and the same. The emerald-eyed young man felt himself drawn to that tableau before his very eyes; he was drowning in sensations he could not even begin to describe. What was it that made this man hide this part of him from the world? Was it his loss, or theirs? How could a man like Severus Snape, a man who seemed so jaded and frigid, exude such warmth and vibrancy in a cold, dark and desolate room like this? What was his secret? His Holy Grail?

The song seemed to be approaching the ending. Harry knew he should do something. He was torn between announcing his presence (and thus ending his peaceful existence) and walking away unscathed (or at the very least attempting to). In the end of the split-second debate in his head, he decided that it was a mortal sin to disturb Severus Snape in the middle of a rousing performance.

Harry considered himself lucky as he backed away, unnoticed, from that once-concealed door; not only because he was not caught intruding at possibly one of his most-hated (a little nudge from the back of his mind was enough for him to question that now) Potions Professor's most private moments. No, Harry thought, it would not have mattered to him if Snape caught him and cursed him to oblivion for having walked in on that rather passionate scene. It would not even have mattered to him had Snape decided to turncoat and take him directly to Voldemort to be slaughtered. No, Harry thought, it would not have mattered at all. Anything would have been worth that small glimpse of the dark wizard's humanity. Harry quietly exited the way he came in. He would have to give up another night –or two, most likely –to serve this detention.

As he wordlessly climbed into his four-poster bed much later that night, he paused a moment to clear his mind of the rest of that particular day's humdrums. He knew that he was forever hopeless at the Art of Occlumency, but if only to commit that one vivid image to his memory, he would try to empty his head of all other thoughts.

The man's face… his eyes… he had not seen the man's eyes as he had played and sang, but Harry's imagination more than made up for what he had failed to see. He knew, had he glimpsed into those fathomless pools of obsidian, in that specific instance, he would have not been frozen by that normally ice-cold glare, but consumed –by the burning flames of passion in them, fire that reflected the one from deep within the dark wizard's soul –one that few would ever get the chance to see. Never again would Harry judge the man as cold and unfeeling.

' _What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever truly find out?'_

As the young Gryffindor finally closed his emerald eyes to rest that night, his mind held nothing but visions of dark eyes, candles… and music that spoke directly to his heart and soul.

The beginning… of the end.

The memory of a secret.

' _Will I ever truly find out?'_

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END of PROLOGUE-

**01010101010101010101010101010**


	2. Wishing you Were Somehow Here Again

**Chapter 1: Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again**

"I can't believe I'm saying this to you right now, of all people, but Welcome back to Hogwarts for us both." A smiling Draco Malfoy said, gesturing his arms widely. He was standing by the entrance to the Great Hall. An amused-looking , dark-haired, emerald-eyed man who stood beside him, snorted.

"Yeah, who would've thought? Last time we were both here, we were trying to kill each other."

"Oh no, not that," the blonde laughed. "It's just one hilarious twist of fate in my opinion that we should both find ourselves back here, teaching, no less."

The dark-haired man had a wistful look on his prematurely aged face. "Five years ago –"

"We were so sure of what we'd become." Draco cut him off with a grin. "There I was, so certain that by the end of the war, I'd be locked up tight in an Azkaban cell next to my father –"

"And I was so sure that I'd end up putting you in there." The dark-haired man finished for him with a smile. "Those were the good old days, Malfoy." Draco raised an immaculate eyebrow.

"If you call them good, then you are seriously depraved, Potter."

"That's Professor Potter to you, Malfoy."

Draco snorted himself.

"Then it's Professor Malfoy to you, Professor Potter." The two young men shared a light-hearted laugh. Draco suddenly turned serious and patted his colleague's arm gently.

"We've really come a long way, Harry. I mean, just look at us –we're managing a polite conversation for about four minutes now." Harry raised an inquiring eyebrow of his own before uncharacteristically smirking and brushing Draco's hands away.

"Get your hands off f me, Ferret."

"Gladly, Scarhead." Draco rolled his eyes. "Seriously. There goes my image of an upstanding citizen of Wizarding Britain. I can't go around calling the Vanquisher of Voldemort all sorts of rude names."

"What image, Draco Malfoy? The 'I-am-a-stuck-up-prick-of-a-pureblood-fanatic slash Death-Eater-spawn-in-the-making' image? Sorry to burst your bubble, but you've kind of lost that label when you decided to marry my muggleborn best friend and get a Mastery in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I, on the other hand, have the image to maintain. I can't go around being highly critical of my fellowmen." Harry then pretended to brush off an invisible peck of lint on his dark green robes. Draco smirked.

"You're one to talk. If you're pertaining to your 'I-am-Saint-Potter-Protector-of-the-Oppressed, Defender-of-the-Light, and Every-Witch's-Dream-Boy' façade, then I am doubly sorry if you missed the memo, but you've lost that when you decided not to become an Auror, break up with that redhead slut and become a Potions Master."

Harry gave his contemporary a smug smile. "You forgot to mention hitting my prick of an ex-best friend in public, square in the jaw, after he called me a man-whore pouf." He then sighed. "I guess we're both for breaking stereotypes, my friend."

"Friend?" Draco echoed him, teasingly. I know I can't complain after you've spoken for me at my trial. But I still have a reputation to uphold amongst the students. Professor Potter. After all, I'm the new Head of Slytherin."

"What, so all Slytherin Heads have to be mean and nasty to Gryffindors? I thought that we Potions Masters have the monopoly of being mean. I mean, I even requested quarters in the dungeons to complete my cold and dark persona."

"Harry Potter, cold and dark?" Draco shook his head. "And you do know that the dungeons are still honorary Snake territory, right?"

"I'm not Head of Gryffindor, Malfoy, your wife is. Nothing in the school rules says that I have to live near the Tower. Besides, the quarters I've requested for are conveniently next to the Potions Corridor –"

"No excuse to be late then," Draco snickered. Harry gave him a half-hearted glare. "I need the anonymity, peace and quiet it offers. The dungeons have that right 'leave me alone' vibe to them. I'd like to see any giggling first year try and annoy me down there."

"And the upper years?" Draco asked. Harry gave him a knowing smile. "By the end of the year, they'd know well enough not to even think about it,' his emerald eyes glinted mischievously.

"Damn," His blonde colleague whistled. "You sure do have your evil git persona planned out. 'Guess I'll have to lay it off the snot-nosed prats or we won't have any students left by the end of the year."

"That, and your wife will kill you if you terrorize any of the children. Especially her Lions." Harry teased. "And besides, Defense Professors are supposed to be nice."

"Like the Carrows?" Draco challenged him. "Quirrell? Umbridge? Fake Moody?"

"Hey at least the guy had a sense of humor!" Harry protested with a grin. Draco glared at him that had the Vanquisher of Voldemort laughing hard.

"Fine, we didn't have the best track record of DADA teachers. But you have to admit, Remus was the nicest. Lockhart may be incompetent, but at least he dressed nicely. Just ask Mione. I don't think she got over her crush on him –"

"I dress nicer than that pouf." Draco sneered haughtily. Harry grinned. "Whatever you say, dear old chum." Suddenly the pleasant look on the emerald-eyed man's face faded. Draco noticed. The blonde knew too well where this conversation was going. "Harry –"

"Snape. He was the bloody bravest of them all." Harry said in an almost-whisper. Draco placed a comforting hand on his once-nemesis' shoulder. He knew how his now-friend blamed himself for the dark wizard's death.

"He was, Potter. No one would forget that." Harry met the silver eyes briefly before looking away.

"He was the hero, not me. I just –I just wish that there had been a body to bury…" He shook his head as if trying to clear it off those exact thoughts that have been haunting him since the Final Battle. "We should set up our stuff. The Hogwarts express will be here soon. Where are you rooming anyway?"

"Base of the new Slytherin Tower. Alternate nights with Mione in Gryffindor Tower. I'd miss the old common room below the Lake, but the newly-constructed tower is rather nice –has a great view of the Quidditch Pitch too. Hey, you're coaching Gryffindor Team, right?" Harry chuckled.

"If I left it to your wife, you wouldn't have any real competition now, would you?"

"True," Draco agreed before he could filter his thoughts. Then upon realizing what he had just admitted to, he scowled. "Don't tell my wife I said that!" Harry resumed laughing as he left for his rooms.

"My lips are sealed."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The Second Wizarding War changed a lot of things, and Hogwarts Castle herself was not spared. The Battle for Hogwarts left the main structure in ruins. And it, being a heavily warded and highly magical building, took five years to reconstruct. The lower levels comprised of the basement kitchens and the dungeons took most of the chore of being rebuilt as the anchor stones of the castle wards were located near them. In the end, it was decided to have the lower levels closed off to students. The new wards needed time to get stabilized and way too much noise and magical interference could affect them. The Slytherins got a new dormitory in their own tower, as did the Hufflepuffs. The kitchens were moved to a room just behind the Great Hall. The basement was left bare and uninhabited. The same was to be done for the dungeons… until the Headmistress offered the Potions Professorship to Harry Potter.

The end of the war saw to a rise of students taking up masteries in Defense, even Charms and Transfiguration, mostly to become Aurors, Ministry Workers or private experts. But the same thing could not be said, sadly, for the exact art and subtle science that was Potions-Making. In fact, in the last five years, only four in the whole of Britain took their Potions NEWTS further. Of those four, only one chose to remain in England –the rest received and accepted job offers abroad. But there wasn't a shortage of Potions Masters, actually, quite the contrary. Though, truth be told, not many would give up a lucrative career in brewing or managing an apothecary in favor of teaching hordes of 'dunderheads'. Really, who in their right minds would?

Standard fees, Saturdays off, no press, no Gryffindor Headship and most importantly the seclusion of the dungeons… When Harry stated his demands in exchange for accepting Minerva's offer of a job, he had half-hoped, half-expected her to say no. Now here he was, walking to his dungeon quarters. There were no portraits, no walking suits of armor, no living or sentient beings for what seemed like miles around him. The Headmistress must be really that desperate to hire him for Hogwarts' reopening, five years after the war.

He wasn't the best of the best, that, harry would gladly admit; case in point, his higher studies took him three years, instead of the usual two, to get to where he was right now. Some would say that he was already a master of his craft after five years, but he knew better. His skills were nowhere near that of the caliber of the  **real**  master.

Severus Snape.

The misunderstood spy had been his inspiration, his hero, in so many ways –to him, the ebony-haired, onyx-eyed man's passion was of no comparison to any other –be it Potions or anything else. (Too bad not many would agree to Harry's observation.) So, here he was, five years later, Professor Harry James Potter, Potions Master, International Potions Guild Member level 8 (only two points below his idol). Many thought that this move was done solely to break away from the mold the adoring public had created for their Savior. Only a few would ever see it as an ode to an unsung hero.

Nothing much had changed in the dungeons amidst all of the repairs. The walls were still made out of damp and at times, even mossy stones. Darkness was still constant, enveloping everything in shadows, no matter what time of the day it was. The air was still eerie with silence, shrouded with mystery, cold with solitude… and yet, Harry knew it hadn't been always like that.

That one night in February, six years ago, was repeated well until the night of Dumbledore's death –but not even the old man's horrific final moments could erase that startlingly vivid scene in Harry's mind: Candles, shadows, long potions-stained fingers… midnight hair, rumpled shirt, those dark eyes that would haunt him forever… But what his mind saw, what had allowed him to finally learn Occlumency, paled in comparison to the music that was constant in his nightly reveries…

The man lay dying in his arms; it was only then that harry realized –no matter what had happened between the two of them in the past –he could never properly hate the Severus Snape, ultimate spy and once-thought of traitor.

" _ **Look at me…"**_

He saw the man's best kept memories; but beyond what lay waiting for him in that cracked stone pensieve that was now his, he saw, he finally saw that coveted fire within the dark wizard's fathomless eyes –fire that he had resorted to only imagining whenever he had secretly witnessed the man and his secret passion. That fleeting spark, a little too late in coming in Harry's opinion was more than enough on its own to ignite his own flickering wick. The death of Severus Snape, and the life he had lived leading up to it, become one Harry Potter's purpose.

' _ **What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever find out?'**_

If there was one thing Harry regretted the most was that his questions remained in his mind alone. He had finally reached the entrance to his quarters, an obscured and heavily fortified stone wall; He remembered that night clearly in his head, when the wall was just a plain office door, unwarded and unlocked. It was now flanked by two perpetually-lit torches. His hands caressed the cold surface as he reverently whispered his password.

"Phantom" the wall melted into an illusion. The room that lay before him was like a blast from the past. It had been untouched since its last occupant left it a little over five years ago –the repairs seemed to have missed or more likely avoided tampering with this particular space. Had there been no preservation charms, Harry thought, the room would have been knee-deep in dust and grime. The emerald-eyed man gave a whispered thanks to the thoughtfulness of house elves. The fire in the grate had been burning merrily for hours, but aside fro that, there was no sign that anyone had ever been into the private room, The old Spartan desk was still in the middle, though void of any clutter. The pair of padded armchairs was still facing the hearth. The two doors, leading to the bedroom and the laboratory were still closed –no doubt, Harry mused, that they too, remained untouched. There was still that feeling of that space as being unlived in. There was still that lone tapestry of a birch tree, off to the right side of the fire place. Harry stopped his exploration…

Could it be?

With clammy, shaky hands, he lifted the edge of the large, fringed rug that hung against the stone wall…

The familiar hidden door was still there. Images of many sleepless nights just sitting outside it, listening, flashed back to the new Potions Master's consciousness. 'Music of the Night', it was called, the first song he had heard and seen performed in this very room. He had even resorted to singing a few lines of it to Hermione just to find out. The muggleborn witch then introduced him to 'Phantom of the Opera' and the world of musical theater. Harry bought the record via Owl Order and listened to it using one of Fred and George's magical music player inventions. A week later, he was back in the dungeons, well-versed in Andrew Lloyd Weber's ultimate masterpiece.

Snape would change up the pieces he would play at night, but 'Music of the Night' remained Harry's favorite. The dark wizard would play other musicians' compositions, but to Harry, it seemed that 'Phantom' was the man's favorite musical –as it would eventually become his.

The ivory and ebony keys still gleamed in the soft orange glow of the candlelight. Harry could feel the ghost of that haunting melody calling out to him now, as it did that first night, many years ago. He sat on the low bench. Over the years, he had learned to appreciate music more, alongside Potions, Earl Grey and star-gazing. But sadly, being a war veteran and a Potions apprentice at the same time took much chance away from him ever learning to play with the level of mastery and finesse his former Potions Professor had –a feat that would take even the dedicated many years to develop.

He couldn't bring himself to learn reading notes, and until now, he had played by his ear –he'd listen to a song, commit it to memory and attempt t translate it onto the keyboard. He learned quite a few songs in this manner, but for some reason, he could not get himself to play 'Music of The Night.' He'd begin the piece but never did he get the chance to finish it. Not once. For some reason, it did not feel right whenever he'd attempt it –there was always something wrong, something lacking… it was like he was missing in on one big secret…

' _ **What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever find out?'**_

No, he thought, he could never play that song, not the way Severus Snape did. Harry poised his hands over the keys. He'd have to make do with another song he knew by heart.

" **You were once my unknown champion/ Your reputation battered/ You were once a reluctant friend/ Then my world was shattered/ Wishing you were somehow here again/ Wishing you were somehow near/ Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed/ Somehow you would be here."**

Harry's voice began to falter, but he trudged on.

" **Wishing I could hear your voice again/ Knowing that I never would/ Dreaming of you won't help me to do/ All that you dreamed I could/ Whispered spells, I could tell/ Would just do me no good/ I have lost you in every manner/ Where once a brave man stood."**

He did not even know how his robes came undone, but they did. His glasses, now more for show, after the permanent Sight-Correcting potion he had invented in his Mastery, were askew.

" **Too many years, fighting back tears/ Can I let the past just die/ Wishing you were somehow here again/ Really must we say 'goodbye'/ Try to forgive, teach me to live/ Give me the strength to try/ No more memories, no more silent tears/ No more gazing across the wasted years/ Must we say goodbye? Must we say goodbye?"**

As it did many nights ago, he became lost in haunting tune of that well-hidden secret, that spell-binding sound of Severus Snape's one true passion aside from Potions. The man's low and smooth baritone complemented the grand piano then as Harry's soft and melodious voice did now. The tempo rose, and the young man found himself going along with the flow. The thrill of flying never came close to this. Now, in this room, playing the very instrument that inspired him to learn this art, Harry had finally understood how Snape felt.

He was a solitary man, a true loner. Sure, there were people around him, but nobody really understood him. Beyond the reputation, nobody knew the real him. And dare he choose to reveal the truth, life as it existed would cease. Harry knew too well how perceptions could rule and even ruin one man's life. People forgave him for not being an Auror. People forgave him for being gay. Would they be as forgiving if they knew that he was living his life for a dead man's memory?

The aria ended as Harry's nimble but calloused fingers finally left the polished keys. Only then had he realized that he had his eyes closed, the whole time he was playing. When he had finally opened them, tears began to flow soundlessly. Now that he thought about it, he'd never seen Snape open his eyes while playing –Harry would arrive each night with the man already in the middle of his runs and would leave, just right before the private concerto ended. Was Severus Snape keeping his tears at bay too?

A loud toiling of bells broke into Harry's reveries –the Hogwarts Express had arrived. The newly-appointed Potions Professor sighed as he left the secret room. There would be other nights to leisurely spend in there, now that he would no longer be wary of getting caught sneaking into a Professor's private chambers. As he redid the buttons of his dark green robes, harry could not help but think. He'd much rather have it that Snape caught him that night –and all the other nights that came after. Maybe if the man did, harry wouldn't have grown to love music as much; maybe he wouldn't have grown to love the darkness and solitude of the dungeons as much; maybe he wouldn't have grown to love the memory of the dark wizard as much… Maybe the man would still be alive. Maybe Harry could ask and finally learn of his secret…

There were so many possibilities that would never see the light of day.

The emerald-eyed man took one last glance at the birch tapestry before heading for the Great Hall.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

From a far, Hogwarts Castle at night looked like a birthday cake, with its candles aflame on top –especially tonight. A pair of dark eyes gazed longingly at this once, thought-of home.

' _It still is, nothing can ever change that.'_

A spray of stars dotted the clear autumn sky. Fleets of lit lanterns glowed like St. Elmo's fire across the blackness of the Great Lake –the traditional ferrying of little first years to get their first glimpse of Hogwarts; a truly majestic experience for anyone, including those dark eyes, many years ago.

He was torn. At one end, he was happy to see Her come back to life once more, with Her halls filled with learning and knowledge, camaraderie and competition, as it should. Loath he was to admit, but it was those things that truly made the place special.

On the other hand, he knew this boded the end for him. His peaceful existence in the plane of shadows and isolation, which had lasted for five years were soon to be no more. He grimaced.

' _I can't. I can't let anything –or anyone, for that matter –'_

A soft sigh escaped his lips. But he made a promise to leave  **him**  alone in exchange for a promise that he too would be left alone. If he was to continue seeing to his one true passion…

' _I have to find a way. No one can know. Especially not… him. Especially not Potter.'_

He'd have to be creative. Hogwarts was and will always be his one true home, his refuge, his safe haven.

A patch of stark white pierced through the darkness and hovered by the equally dark eyes, covering the area immediately surrounding it. Then, as quickly as it came on, it melted into the abyss.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 1-

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	3. Phantom

**Chapter 2: Phantom**

It was after dinner of Harry's first day at teaching. He had just downed his sixth vial of headache potion. If it continued on the way that it did, he'd have to brew a cauldron more of it, just for his personal use.

Merlin, were those first years ever that draining back in his time? It was only the first day in the lab, a day of introductions, and Harry had already had to prevent an innocent, bystander cauldron from being knocked over and exploding in their faces. Harry sighed as he slumped down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace in his private office. Aside from requesting a three-seater sofa, he hadn't had anything changed in the room. Even the desk he was using, which was now run over by parchment and quills, was still the original desk that had been there before.

"Odin?" Harry called. A tiny, ancient-looking house elf appeared.

"Odin in here sir. Master Professor Potter called. What Master Professor be needing?" Odin bowed deeply. No matter how he tried, the elves could never be goaded into calling him just 'Harry'. The new Potions Master smiled at the house elf who seemed to be a strange cross between Kreacher (at his best) and Dobby (at his tamest).

"Just a bottle of scotch please, Odin. Thank you."

The little elf popped out and back with a handsome crystal decanter and a wide shot glass, "Anything else, Master Professor Sir?" Harry shook his head wordlessly and Odin was gone. He then poured a good two fingers of the amber liquid into the glass and downed it in one go. The burn it had caused his throat was a pleasant one, a welcomed warmth in contrast to the coldness of the dungeon air. He helped himself to another glass… and then another… and another. It had been a habit he had developed just right after the war – a coping mechanism that kept him sane amidst all the hype and the controversies that being the Vanquisher of Voldemort entailed. It was not a good practice, Harry knew, but it helped nonetheless. Not half an hour later, he was half-way through the bottle without realizing it…

Wait, was that movement in the corner of his eye? Harry frowned. Was he already starting to see things? It usually took him longer than this to get drunk. Was it because of stress? He could swear he saw that tapestry to his right flutter. Was it the wind perhaps?

' _Okay, I'm drunk_.' Harry declared to himself as he shook his head.  _'Wind? In the dungeons? It must have really been a strong scotch.'_  He stood up from his seat, aiming to reach his bedroom perhaps, but a couple of steps later, and he was already passed out on the cold dungeon floor.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry woke up a few hours later with a sore neck and a hell-raising headache. A quick glance around and he had pronounced himself relatively safe and unharmed in his private office. He must have passed out on the floor –but wait a minute, he was on the sofa now? He rubbed the back of his head as he decided to sleep off the rest of his apparent drunkenness in the comforts of his four-poster bed. Good thing he could sleep in as he had no morning classes the following day…

Wait, there it was again. He was pretty sure that the tapestry moved this time –just right before he turned to head for his bedroom. It can't be the wind, this was the dungeons for Circe's sake! A ghost then? A poltergeist? No, these rooms were warded against them… Harry felt the beginnings of a full-blown headache coming on. It hadn't been this bad since the day the Wizarding World found out he was gay.

Okay, that sleep could wait no longer. The emerald-eyed man decided to just forget his mind's hallucinations –after all, it must have been a mere trick of the light. And right now, he needed his sleep if he were to survive another day teaching dunderheads.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The man was cloaked in shadows, his face, seemingly perpetually obscured by a mask of light… and yet his dark eyes still managed to pierce right through. For so long, he existed in solitude; his night was their day, and in the embrace of nothing but moonlight, he had became what he had so longed to be. For so long, all was well –the world turned without him, but it did not concern him one bit. As long as they left him alone, he was okay. But of course, that blasted Harry Potter had to come in and change all that. The emerald-eyed young man had invaded his space, his domain, his sanctuary…

The masked man smiled to himself. Potter had even gone to the extent of warding it against ghosts. Getting past the brat's defenses would be all too easy –after all, had he not taught the young man himself? He would just have to be patient. The supply of scotch had already been dealt with… he snorted. What Potions Master does not recognize a Sleeping Draught? And that password was, although peculiar for Potter, hardly a challenge for him.

And the anti-ghost wards? It does not exactly work against the living now, does it? No, Potter would not take his final resting place away from him. He would not let it happen. Potter wanted his sanctuary for himself? He will not give it up without a fight.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry's second day of teaching did not fare any better. The second and third years were as bad as the firsties. Seriously, could it get any worse than this?

"Hey Harry, are you okay?" Harry met the concerned face of his pregnant best friend. "Are the students as horrible in Transfiguration as they are in Potions, Mione? I'm seriously considering blasting the whole lot if as so much as another idle cauldron explodes." The two former Gryffindors were walking towards the Great Hall right after their final classes for that day. The bushy-haired witch gave him a comforting smile. "You'll get used to it, Harry. You're a great teacher. Remember DA? All of us there passed our NEWTS in DADA, Charms and even Transfiguration in flying colors –"

"Whoever thought that teaching Potions to a bunch of overly-excited, hormonal teenagers is a sound idea ought to be shot in the head. I don't know what I was thinking. This is pure madness! I've just barely grasped the concept, maybe –"

"Don't say it, Harry! You're rather brilliant when you apply yourself to something and you know it!" Hermione admonished him. "I'm sure Professor Snape would be proud of your accomplishments if he could see you now."

"Want to be on that?" Harry snorted. "I'll put my Firebolt Infinity on the line that he's laughing his ass off in some Potions after-life at my expense." Then, his face fell. "I'd much rather have him laughing to my face though." He shook his head. He stopped walking and began to turn towards the direction he came from. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mione. I have a stack of papers on my desk that won't grade themselves –"

"Aren't you coming to dinner at least? You already skipped lunch and –"

"Nah, I'll just have food sent downstairs," he lied to her. "Say hello to the Ferret for me. I haven't seen him all day."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was pinching the bridge of his nose, ten minutes into grading his first year's essays: 'Describe the ways in which poor preparation of ingredients could lead to disastrous results in Potions-Making.' The last one had garnered a resounding 'P'. Even Grawp could write better than the twerp. Was his own handwriting ever this atrocious? He had requested for a 12-inch essay on the topic. So far, none of his firsties had even managed to hold his attention for the first three inches. He discarded the parchment in his hand and eyed his still tall stack of papers rather warily –he'd never assign another essay ever again. As he reached for the next 'torture text' by one Melissa Avery, he thought he'd seen it…

Was that a billow of black robes? Harry rubbed his eyes. He hadn't been drinking, so he couldn't plead drunkenness. He fingered the wand he kept holstered in his left arm, no matter what –an old throwback from the Second War, a habit he had developed. No one should be able to breach his wards, alive or dead –more like no one would dare –but one can never be too sure. As the late Alastor Moody would say, 'Constant Vigilance!' Harry decided to resume his grading, but kept an alert stance nevertheless.

But a lot could be said about attempting to read and grading senseless chicken scrawls though, as minutes later, the ever-vigilant Professor Potter was nodding off to sleep. He did not see anything that might've resembled black robes until he finally drifted off to dreamland.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The man smirked to himself. Sometimes, Potter was just too predictable; He did bypass the alcohol that night, but a little reading and he was out like the light. The man quietly glanced around the space: Potter hardly changed a thing, which relieved him, for although he had stayed elsewhere during the day, he was still attached to the Spartan space. At least the Gryffindor did not dare mess with his aesthetics.

Said emerald-eyed Lion was now deeply slumbering on his old desk; Potter's delicate arms served as cushion to his mop top head. A pile of graded homework was scattered to his right; a much larger of ungraded ones got knocked over by a haphazard elbow onto the stone floor at some point. The man snorted. Judging by the impossible handwriting, it had to be first years. All of a sudden, he felt sorry for the young man. Quietly, he gathered the fallen pieces of parchment and replaced them on the desk. He glanced at a clock that now resided on the once-bare mantelpiece. He had a few hours to spare. His dark eyes then fell back onto the stack of ungraded homework…

An hour later, all of Professor Potter's first year essays were neatly stacked in a single pile to his right –all graded. An amused, dark-eyed man left the room, headed towards the birch tapestry, quite pleased with himself.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

"MALFOY! I NEED A WORD!" A visibly upset Harry Potter stormed all the way up to the Staff Table in the Great Hall, early the following morning. Curious looks followed him. The Potter-Malfoy school rivalry was legendary back in the day. Could this be a possible reprise? Many held their breaths as Harry finally rounded on Draco.

"Professor Potter, is something the matter?" Draco asked, looking genuinely surprised and at the same time, concerned. Harry maintained his rather impressive glare though as he tossed a roll of parchment towards his blonde colleague. "Read the one on top." He said stiffly. Draco gave him an inquisitive glare as Hermione looked on at them.

"What's going on, Harry? Draco?"

"You want me to read your student's essay?" Asked Draco, still sounding unsure. He unrolled the parchment and grimaced. "First year essays? There's a reason why I never assign them." Harry rolled his eyes. "Jus read the comments on the margin, Ferret," he breathed heavily. The blonde DADA Master frowned but did as he was told. Moments later, his pale face was indescribable. He gave Harry an awed look.

"Merlin, Harry! You're going to make this little girl cry! I did not know that you had it in you –"

"WHAT!" Harry scowled. "Give me that! I did not do this, okay? I fell asleep halfway through grading last night and woke up this morning with the rest of the papers done. When I checked the rest, they all had those nasty comments in the margins –tell me you did it as a prank, Malfoy –"

"What? No!" Draco exclaimed. "I haven't even been to your quarters yet! Why are you even thinking that it was me?" The blonde turned to his wife. "I didn't do it, Mione, I swear!" The bushy-haired witch sighed and took the liberty of reading the essay for herself. She grabbed it from Harry and began reading.

" **Miss Dove, if your handwriting would be the reflection of your mental capacity, then I would say that it is a very accurate depiction. Your essay had the substance of a black hole, the grammar of a first-grader from a third-world country, and the sense of a Gryffindor charging head first to battling a 60-foot Basilisk armed with nothing but his wand…"**

"Oh my," the pregnant witch exclaimed. "Are all of them this nasty?" Harry threw Draco a look as he spoke next. "Stupid Gryffindor jibes ring a bell?" Draco threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender and shook his head. "I do think that you Lions could be foolishly brave, but I'd never go as far as insulting the mental capacity and penmanship of a little firstie, Potter. I'm way past that." Harry sighed. "Well, if it isn't you, then who?" Thee two wizards had blank looks on their faces. Hermione on the other hand, had a thoughtful frown.

"That condescending tone sounded rather familiar. I would understand why Draco wouldn't possibly… I think he hardly got bad grades for his essays. But of all people, Harry, you should know." Draco sniggered at his wife's words. Harry frowned.

"What are you going on about, Hermione? My essays weren't that bad! You helped me with them!" Hermione glared at him. "Of course they were good! But your handwriting was certainly atrocious. Think, Harry. Who spent half the time commenting on your essays, criticizing the penmanship? Who?"

It was Harry's face's turn to be indescribable.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

It was Friday night. Harry had finally invited Draco and Hermione to his quarters. The Transfiguration Mistress immediately took to the neatly arranged bookshelves. The DADA Professor on the other hand gave his friend a look.

"Are you sure you aren't just channeling his ghost or something, Potter? This was his room for many years after all."

"If Severus Snape did have a ghost roaming around somewhere, he wouldn't be busy grading first-year essays." Harry said matter-of-factly.

"You'll never know," said Draco, looking around. "Merlin, this looks almost exactly like it did when he last lived here. By the way, I still think you've gone completely mental for choosing to room here."

"I like it simple," Harry reasoned. "And everything was just in fine working order –it would be senseless to change or throw anything out. The lab down here is superb. The desk is rather nice. The bed is huge –"

"You sleep in HIS bed?" Draco exclaimed, to which Harry gave him a blank look. The blonde sighed. "No wonder –" he then shook his head. "Never mind. Just a piece of advice, Potter. Refrain from wearing black. It's enough that you make a uniform of dark green. But one day, it's subconsciously writing nasty comments on essays –the next thing you know, you'll perpetually be garbed in black and your robes will begin to billow like bat wings in flight –and then your Dungeon Git persona is complete."

"Ha, bloody ha, Malfoy," Harry muttered through gritted teeth.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The Malfoys had to leave early. As in Hermione's condition, she couldn't very well stay up much later. Harry was left with nothing to do that night. He did refrain from assigning essays, and there were no requests yet from the Hospital Wing. He glanced at the scotch. Draco thought he was already going mental; Hermione thought he was undergoing depression –alcohol would only worsen things. He vanished the whole decanter. His eyes then rested on the lone tapestry in his room. Perhaps tonight, he could devote time to music…

The room was always lit up, either with a Perma-charm on the candles, or the Castle's magic itself, Harry was unsure. He spared no second admiring the gleaming keys before sitting down. He loosened his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of his bottle-green silk shirt up to the elbows. He racked his head for the opening notes to 'Phantom of the Opera', the song that carried the same title as the musical itself. He closed his eyes and listened to the melody in his head.

The first few bars were commanding, haunting and otherworldly. It carries the same air of mystifying allure as did the rest of the songs from the musical. For reasons that Harry could not bring himself to fathom, it greatly appealed to him –maybe it was the songs themselves… Or maybe, it was the story behind them…

It was about a mystical, spectral 'Angel of Music', a passionate maestro of musical theatre –and his rather charming but naïve protégé. This half-masked and mysterious cloaked man would appear to his unaware student in the dead of the night and teach her all that he knew about his craft. They would rendezvous amongst the shadows and make sweet, haunting music in the dark. Eventually, the teacher falls in love with his protégé. Sadly, it was unrequited. His student chooses another, leaving the masked Phantom solitary and heart-broken until the very end.

Harry found himself watching the muggle play in London's West End, the very first chance he got. He immediately fell in love with the dark and brooding masked 'angel' Erik –even though his costume reminded him rather startlingly of Death Eater garbs, the white mask especially. To date, he had seen the play nine times. He had even seen the movie adaptation a couple of time.

He felt for the Phantom. How hard must it have been to exist in the shadows, when the love of your life was constantly basking in the limelight? How hard must it have been to hide your true self, behind a mask –literally and figuratively –for all eternity? To deny your heart's desire? Your passion? Your purpose?

Harry felt the tears coming. He did not know why he became emotional whenever it came to that subject. A small voice fro the depths of his consciousness would argue: Erik reminded Harry of another dark, brooding and secluded man. He was unsure, truly, and yet he kept on playing. His fingers effortlessly gliding across the keyboard, surfing on long-held sentiments and unacknowledged emotions that ran deeper than the Marianas Trench. He kept his emerald orbs hidden, in an attempt to stave off the otherwise inevitable. He was lost in another world at that point in time –a world of dreams, regrets and make-believe.

It was a reality, Harry thought, that could never come true. And yet, had he stopped to open his eyes and wipe the tears away that very moment, he might've believed that fantasies were nothing but overrated realities waiting to happen. He might've believed that he had stepped into the Twilight Zone…

For there, by the concealed doorway leading to the very room he was in, was the Phantom if his very own dreams, dark eyes clouded in both wonderment and confusion at the image of the protégé that forever plagued his own reveries.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The masked man stopped dead in his tracks.

Was that music? Coming from his secret room? Rage filled his senses. He would tolerate an invasion of his space, his domain… but no one would take his one true passion away from him, mock it, and get away with bloody murder… especially not Harry Bloody Potter. Who else would it be? He should have warded the damned thing in the first place. What was he thinking? Of course Potter would find out eventually. If there was anyone who would, it would be that nosy Gryffindor brat!

It began with a gift from his mother. When she had to give up magic in favor of keeping the peace in their household, she took up her side-hobby and turned it into her life-long passion. An unknown, warded room in their humble house's basement served as her music room. She would escape there with her then five-year old only son whenever her husband would turn violent from too much alcohol. The little boy was her only willing audience –and eventually, student. On the sly, she would teach him draughts and notes, elixirs and sharps, concoctions and measures… at seven, he was brewing potions and antidotes, performing sonatas and etudes on his own. It was a safe haven he had shared with her until tragedy struck when he was fifteen…

His mother had died a violent death in her own house, by her own husband's hands –the same man that had perished not long after in his sleep –at least according to the muggle police. The summer of the young man's sixth year, he stopped coming to that house; he stopped coming to that secret room in the basement. The darkest days of his life had begun shortly thereafter and that safe haven was momentarily forgotten. Only when the First War subsided did he find the time and urge to tap back into that hidden part of his earlier years. There was only one soul alive that knew of his other passion aside from Potions –and he'd rather have it that way.

But of course, Fate had other plans for its whipping boy.

What to do now? He can't very well murder the brat, could he? He made a promise in exchange for being left alone. But this breach wasn't part of that deal. And can corporeal –supposedly –ghosts even commit homicide? No, probably not, but there would have to be another way that he could keep the blasted Gryffindor away from his prized possession without bloodshed.

The masked man's pale hands plunged deep into his robes' pockets.

' _A Stunner? Should I Obliviate him?'_

His long fingers were tightly wrapped around an unregistered ebony wand on one hand, the other, on the decorative fringes edging the birch tapestry. He swiftly lifted it up, exposing the plain wooden door that lay behind it. He raised his wand, ready to hex the man on the other side of it even before he could see him, The door opened soundlessly…

The haunting melody froze him in both time and space.

Potter was playing 'Phantom of the Opera.'

What? How?

Harry Bloody Potter was playing 'Phantom of the Opera' with his blasted emerald eyes closed. The masked man could only stare in awe, murderous thoughts completely departing him, Harry, foolish, idiotic Gryffindor brat, Potter was caressing the keys of the masked man's precious grand piano like he had been born to do so –it was the last thing he had expected to see. His wand arm listlessly dropped to his side, his eyes never leaving the rather mesmerizing image.

The enthralling music suddenly stopped. The masked man held his breath.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 2-

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	4. Down Once More

**Chapter 3: Down Once More**

Potter's rendition of 'Phantom of the Opera' suddenly stopped. The masked man held his breath as soft, agile fingers wiped –wait, were those tears escaping the young man's closed eyes? His almost non-existent heart started beating madly. Should the brat open his eyes and look his way…

Potter didn't. He sighed in relief. He had just gone down from the unexpected surprise, when the masked man found his breath hitching again –the emerald eyed professor finally spoke.

"It was many years ago, in this very room, when I had accidentally found out,' the soft voice echoed perfectly in the small space. It seemed like he was addressing an invisible confessor. The emerald eyes remained hidden, as if opening them would break whatever enchantment he was under in. The masked man found himself drawn to listen to Potter for the very first time.

"He was always so harsh and cold, to me, especially –but that night –that night made me see the real him for the very first time. For the very first time, I saw him without his mask on." A small smile graced the young man's face, making him look more like his age of twenty-three. "Had he known that I was there, I know he wouldn't even think twice and cart me off to Voldemort." A shaky laugh escaped the young man's lips. The masked man frowned. Potter had found out about his secret long ago and kept it? If he found out that Potter had told anyone… a resurrected Voldemort would be the least of the brat's problems.

"It doesn't matter," Potter was now saying, as if in response to the masked man's unvoiced threat. "Sometimes I could not help but wish that he'd just caught me back then… then maybe, I could ask him, and maybe I could ask what his secret was –what fired his passion. Maybe he'd tell me, maybe not. But at least I asked. At least I wouldn't feel as lost as I am right now…"

' _Lost?'_ The masked man wondered _._  More tears came, but Potter made no move to wipe them off. Nonetheless, his monologue continued.

"He's saved me countless times before. He never knew how thankful I am. I never told him…" A quiet sigh. "Bloody git. Even from the grave he still manages to save me. I doubt I'd still be breathing if not for him." A snort. "if he could see me now, he'd flay my skin off and deep fry it in boiling oil –then he'd lecture me for being an idiotic, self-centered Gryffindor. He'd tell me –" Potter paused again, this time his fingers flying up to wipe away the tears. The masked man's lips tightened. What would HE tell Potter? He waited for the young man to recover, all the while, conflicting thoughts swimming around his head.  _'This is preposterous –'_

"He'd tell me it's not my fault he's dead," came the almost breathless conclusion. Potter was evidently fighting a sob and losing the battle.  _'Potter is baling himself?'_  The masked man's ears perked up.  _'Bloody Gryffindor –'_

"I'd rather have him laugh at my face for thinking stupid thoughts. I'd rather have him playing here and catching me trying to listen outside his secret door… I'd much rather have him alive…"

A loud 'CLANG' sounded as Potter's arms dropped onto the keyboard. The young man then finally opened his eyes and looked around him… no that he would see anything out of the ordinary there. For the Phantom of his dreams had already left, the moment that last word fell from his lips; The one cloaked in darkness clutched the mask stuck to his face as he hastily departed, his racing heart ensconced in the other hand.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry decided to go to Hogsmeade the following afternoon after turning down an invite to eat lunch with the Malfoys at Diagon Alley. Students weren't scheduled to visit the village yet, so the young professor almost had the place to himself. The midday shopper's rush already abated. The emerald-eyed man found himself walking past the colorful shop displays, all the way to the end of the high street, past the edge of the village's main thoroughfare. All the while, he kept his head down, his gaze never leaving the dirt-laden ground. A looming shadow crossed his path eventually. He stopped to look up.

' _It's still here… After all these years… I can't believe it's still standing…'_

The dilapidate structure called out to him from a distance; like a good-old scarecrow, it drove away anybody else that would dare try to approach and disturb the secrets it concealed –but not to Harry. To him, it served as a beacon. The Ministry had condemned the building for demolition just right after the war. However, it took only one impassioned plea from the Vanquisher of Voldemort to let it remain as a 'historical marker'.

The rusty hinges were barely holding the rotting front door up. There were gaping holes in the badly-boarded up windows. A large portion of the walls had noticeable smoke damage. A part of the roof had even caved in near the back. It was the first time in five years that Harry was stepping inside the Shrieking Shack.

The rumor mills have been busy in the last five years. Since during the time of the Marauders when Remus used to escape there for his monthly transformations, stories of 'violent' ghost sightings have never been more rampant as it were right after the Second Wizarding War, There were villagers who claimed to have seen the flicker of candle lights coming from the abandoned building, some even reckon that they have seen moving shadows through the windows, usually right before dawn and right after dusk. Still, many others claimed as far as to having seen a masked ghoul, floating through the Shack's rundown walls.

But no matter what the unassuming villagers would see, their stories always come together on what they would hear during these apparitions: Everyone who had something to say about these 'Shrieking Shack Ghost Encounters' would tell you about the smooth and low haunting baritone that they would sometimes hear singing just as the sun rose, or set, as the case maybe.

Despite the rumors that the ghost, who consensus would claim as a man, was a malevolent spirit, none have actually ever encountered his wrath in the last five years –In fact, it appeared to just keep to the shack, singing with that enthralling, otherworldly voice of his.

Harry Potter had never heard of these stories, surprisingly.

A gentle push, and the door opened to let the young professor in. His eyes immediately took in the familiar surrounding, and at once, it all came rushing back to him…

He remembered coming back here alone that day, fresh from killing the darkest wizard to have ever lived. He remembered being covered head to foot with blood and muck. He remembered running blindly towards the old rundown building with one thing, and only one thing in his mind:

' _ **I need to get him back,'**_

There was no body there when he had arrived. Harry feared for the worst. Voldemort's defeat did not necessarily mean that all of his followers were caught or killed as well. Up to now, there were the likes of Rosier and Avery who were still on the loose. What horrible things could they have done to the dead body of a well-known traitor? Severus Snape had immediately pardoned and absolved of all the criminal charges against him after Harry had decided to release the man's memories to the DMLE. He was sure that had Snape been alive, the man would've killed him for doing so, but it was a risk well worth it. Severus Snape was now truly a free man even in death.

There had been no body, but a funeral was arranged. Snape's marker was laid to rest amongst the fallen heroes in Godric's Hollow. He was laid to rest next to the only woman he'd ever loved, Lily Evans-Potter. Harry thought it prudent that the two once-friends be reconciled even in death. Snape had more than made up for the 'mudblood incident' in their fifth year, Harry reckoned, as well as revealing Trelawney's damned prophecy to Voldemort. It had been paid more than tiwce over, in Harry's opinion.

When Harry's memories brought him back to the present, he found himself staring at a dark space. He casted a softly-whispered 'Lumos'. The walls were grimy, although the floor was less dusty than what he would have expected. Cobwebs dotted every nook and cranny, every crevice in the exposed ceiling. His feet made a hollow sound as he took thrifty steps towards that all-too familiar corner by the back. The floor boards creaked as he knelt reverently on that spot.

There had been so much blood –so, so much blood. He could almost still feel the crimson liquid staining his hands, directly pouring out of the man's neck.  _ **'Look at me,'**_  he had said, and Harry did.

He had 'Scourgified' himself hundreds of times that day –he had even stood under a piping-hot shower for hours… But no matter what he did, he could not help but feel those eyes still on him, the voce beckoning him to see, the warm blood still on his hands…

And all he did was look…

He had been too shocked to speak that day. He wasn't ready for Snape to die. He'd never be ready to have the man die in his arms –how was he to know? What was he supposed to have said?

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered to the now, blood-free wall. "Thank you." Tears began welling up his eyes. Harry brushed them away and smiled. "You'd kill me for saying this, but I miss you, I really do." That sentiment lingered in the silence that permeated the dimly-lit Shack next. It lasted until Harry felt his knees go numb. The sun was about to set when he stood up from his spot, brushed the dust that had accumulated in his robes away and took a final look around him. He gently closed the rotting door as he left. He'd be missing dinner in the Great Hall once more. Hermione would kill him.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Just as the front door of the Shrieking Shack had been closed for the second time in five years, its often-used cellar door opened. A tall, dark figure emerged from its shadows and on to the rapidly darkening room above. The man was cloaked in shadows, masked in light, and in that room, he was hidden from the rest of the world. He took out his own wand and cast a weak 'Lumos' –just enough to see a few inches in front of his face, but not beyond. His dark eyes pierced through his mask, glowing in the bluish-white light, coming from the tip of his wand. He had seen Potter come by. He heard every whispered word that came from the young man's lips. He had now just began to piece together the puzzle that had been plaguing his mind since last night…

' _Potter, you will be the death of me. Why? Why can't you just let it go?'_

The light emitted by his spell work began to falter as the moon rose. The masked man sighed as his wand arm dropped to his side. He promised. He made a promise to leave him alone… but how could he let Potter, for the very life of him, waste away? How could he not save the Savior from his very own ghost? His guilt? His memory?

' _I'm long dead –why should I care? Why should I continue to care?'_

All he wanted was a quiet life –death –was that too much to ask? He knew he should just leave the young man alone; if he was to peacefully exist in the safety and solitude of the shadows, he should stay away. Let Potter wallow in his guilt and throw away his life. But would that do anything good for his conscience? Contrary to popular belief, he did have one. It wasn't just guilt or a favor for a dear friend that moved him to help the Gryffindor, no. There was an honest-to-goodness, living, breathing conscience residing within the depths of his soul… and maybe a tiny bit of concern too, for the boy who's life mirrored his, in more ways than one.

Should he risk his life –death –to save Potter again? Yes, there were risks, and they far outweigh all that he cared about right now, if he was to be honest with himself. A pale hand reached up to touch his bemasked face. Maybe there was a way this could work. Yes, there was a way to deliver his final 'hurrah' for the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Defeat-The-Dark-Lord –and still hold on to his peaceful afterlife and his sanity.

' _All the trouble I go into for you, Potter… you ought to be building shrines for me, not following my footsteps to your imminent doom,'_

A plan formed in the masked man's mind: he would resurrect the Savior back to life, rescue him from the shadows and reinstate him in the light where he truly belonged. It should be easy, shouldn't it? Then, after it all, he could finally enjoy the rest of his death in peace and quiet as he should… easy.

That is, if it all went according to plan. There is still something to be said about Harry Potter and the best-laid plans not going together. The man grimaced. If Fate should ever decide to help him, now would be the best time,

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry bypassed the Great Hall wherein dinner was still in full swing. He'd deal with Hermione tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to sleep. He felt tired, way too tired –like he'd been all his life. The walled entrance to his quarters greeted him. He caressed the wall like usual and whispered: "phantom." This time however, the stoned refused to budge. The young professor frowned.

"Hey –What's the matter with –Phantom!" said Harry, a little more forcefully. However, the wall remained as still as ever. With a glare, he raised his wand and pointed it at the stones guarding the entrance to his rooms.

"I, Harry James Potter, Master of this School, demand that you grant me entrance to the rooms beyond!" The stone touching the tip of his wand glowed, as spidery lines began to emerge from it and formed into words:

**Only a true Potions Master is worthy of entrance to the secrets I conceal. Speak if you wish to know what I may reveal.**

"What –" The wall was glowing with the gleaming words etched into it by unseen hands. Harry furrowed his brows. But before he could react further, more words appeared to join the rest:

**I am useless when alone, only danger rouses me; Forgotten on my own, heralded when the Dead beckons thee.**

The young professor's mouth was agape. "Are you seriously asking me to answer that?" More words appeared on the wall:

**The next words you say out loud shall be your answer. Think hard.**

Harry shook his head. What was this day coming to? How o earth did someone manage to break into the enchantments of his room? Sure, he wasn't a spell-crafter or and expert warder like Bill Weasley, but he did learn a lot about the art, thanks to the scribbled-in margins of the Half-Blood Prince's book that he had recovered, miraculously in one piece, inside the charred Room of Requirement. He was certain that nobody else aside from him had discovered the wealth of warding spells and hexes from the much-maligned Potions book of Severus Snape –so, how indeed was this happening? Harry stared at the wall thoughtfully. The spidery scrawl looked familiar, but the rough surface of the stones distorted it enough for him not to get a clear identification of the hand writing. This looked bad. It reminded him of that Chamber of Secrets fiasco in his second year.

Should he cast a 'Revealio?' That would probably be a bad idea. No, Harry doubted that would work. Whoever did this would have to have been smart enough not to leave a magical signature… He sighed. The words glowed an eerie green, almost mockingly. It seemed that there was no other way through it –he was answering the damned riddle.

' _Okay, useless when alone, only needed when in danger?'_  Harry mused in his head. _'That's easy… an antidote. But what about that second line? A potion that's forgotten unless the Dead is calling? Wait, but 'Dead' is capitalized… could it mean a potion called "Dead?' But –as far as I know, there's only one called as such –and the potion, of course, a spell could be used in its stead. As far as antidotes go, however –but of course! The antidote top the Draught of the Living Dead is…'_

"THE WIDE-AWAKE POTION!" Harry exclaimed. "The Wide-Awake Potion is deemed useless since there are other concoctions that are easier to make that produces the same effect. However, it is the only known antidote to the Draught of the Living Dead. And without it, it's practically forgotten by brewers!"

The wall in front of Harry melted away. He walked towards the entrance to his rooms with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Hah! Take that, you stupid wall –"

But apparently, the stone wall did not like being called stupid. As soon as Harry breached the threshold, he was hit and knocked out by an unseen force filed of some sort. The poor young professor was caught unaware and unguarded. He slumped down on to the cold stone floor beneath his feet, completely passed out.

As soon as he did, a shadowed figure emerged from just right behind him, The cloaked man's face was half-hidden by his white mask, but a smile could be seen forming in his pale, exposed lips. He knelt down next to Professor Potter's slumbering form, and with one cold hand, brushed a few stray hairs covering the young Potions Master's handsome face. A long finger traced the infamous scar on the Wizarding Savior's forehead.

"I missed you too, Potter –and I'd kill my own ghost first before saying that to your face." He smirked. "Now what did I tell you about using my own creations against me? I have to admit that it took me longer than I had anticipated to break the enchantments you've put in. But really, your choice of password put me off. It was almost of no challenge." The masked man sighed. "I'd love to stay out here and reminisce with you, but something tells me that your position down here isn't quite comfortable as it looks." He lifted the prone form into his arms. "Now let's get you inside so we could properly catch up, shall we? We have a lot to discuss, starting with how on earth did you manage your Potions Mastery. Inspired guessing by the way. Worry not though, you don't have to answer riddles each time you require passage to my, -fine –your quarters. What on earth moved you to room down here anyway, other than the obvious fact that you are a down right masochist? What am I saying? Oh well, we shall learn of it later. We'll see if yo can really fill in the 'dungeon bat' shoes my death has left behind."

As soon as the masked man entered the private space with Harry in his arms, the wall behind them solidified once more.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

When Harry woke up, bright lights immediately assaulted his vision. Had he forgotten to 'Nox' the candles out? Was it morning already? He shook his head/ He tried to think back to the last thing he could remember: Somebody had charmed his entrance wall, he answered the bloody riddle… and the rest was blank. He sat up in his bead, apparently he had made it there for some reason. Why couldn't he remember anything else? Was he in danger? He checked the wand strapped to his left arm –it was still there though. Should he inform the Headmistress of the break in? What were the odds of it being all a dream though? They would think him crazy. Great, another scandal involving the Brave and Eternally Might Gay Savior. Bad idea. And besides, he can protect himself from anything. If there was indeed someone who wished to do him harm, it should be of no concern… now how the heck did he get into his bed? He checked himself. All his body parts seemed to be complete and able… where did he get the black silk pajamas he was wearing? They looked practically ancient! He'd never own such a thing… wait, what was that? Was that music he was hearing?

He threw the covers off himself, jumped from the four-poster bed and ran.

Someone was in the hidden piano room!

Harry was almost out of breath when he reached his destination. With a shaky hand, he hurriedly lifted the old birch tapestry up, his wand gripped tightly in the other. He readied himself to curse whoever managed to intrude inside his rooms. But when harry pushed the plain wooden door open, he froze at what he saw.

It was a case of déjà vu: candles, shadows, dark hair, dark robes… it had to be a dream, Harry thought. There was no way… He moved as slowly as he could manage, as if any sudden gestures would disturb the mirage –had it been one.

' _Snape?'_  It was the first thing that came to Harry's mind. But the apparition he was seeing did not seem to be a ghost, and the man had died in his arms, Then, who was this? The man wore a mask, covering most of his face with the exception of his thin lips. His longish, brushed back ebony hair served as the perfect foil for the stark-white covering his true identity. Through the holes of the mask, Harry could tell that the man's eyes were closed. The man was deeply entrenched in playing 'Phantom of the Opera'. Harry stared in awe as realization suddenly hit him, full force.

"Phantom," Harry whispered. The music stopped.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 3-

**01010101010101010101010101010**


	5. Angel of Music

**Chapter 4: Angel of Music**

"Phantom," Harry found himself whispering loudly before he could even stop himself. As soon as the word left his lips though, he almost wished that it didn't.

The man stopped playing and looked at him, dark eyes piercing through the stark-white half mask. He smiled a pleasant but ghastly smile and Harry could not help but shiver. He gripped his wand tighter.

"Who –who are you?"

The man's smile widened.

"I believe you called me Phantom," he said in a modulated voice, that seemed to have come from deep below the ground. Harry found himself almost trembling at the ethereal baritone. He raised his wand higher. "I don't believe you."

"What is it that you are finding hard to accept, that I exist, or that I had managed to breach your wards and enter this hidden chamber?" the man asked him. "But you are right. Phantom is not my name, but it will have to do. That is all you will ever need to address me," He stood up from the low bench he was sitting on and walked towards Harry. The masked man's steps were fluid and graceful –he moved almost like a dancer. Harry found his breath hitching when the man stopped about a foot away from him. The Phantom was easily taller than him. In his wonderment, he had not noticed his wand arm drop to his side,

"You are certainly not a ghost… Are –are you a dream?" Harry asked quietly. The Phantom reached out and let one long white finger brush the young professor's cheek. "I am as real as you make me, Harry." He said. "But it matters not. IN this room, there are no dreams, no realities, only possibilities." The Phantom turned away and made a move to sit back in front of the piano, looking very much at home. Harry found himself watching the mysterious man, transfixed. The masked man noticed this, and motioned for the young professor to join him on the bench. As soon as Harry was beside him, the Phantom resumed his playing. The emerald-eyed man could not help but be mesmerized by the way those fingers glided across the intermittent ebony and ivory. He wondered if he could ever play that well.

"It is not the hands that create the music," the Phantom said, as if reading Harry's thoughts. "You can see my fingers moving the keys, but that is just your eyes. Music encompasses all five senses –at times, it even transcends what is tangible, what is perceived by your basic senses. Most of the time, that, which is essential, is seen only by closing your eyes and heeding the beating of your heart. Do remember that." The man stopped playing and met Harry's contemplative gaze. "Would you like to learn, Harry?"

The emerald-eyed man looked taken aback, surprised at the Phantom's offer. "You would teach me, to play like you do, I mean?" The masked man shook his head.

"You are only as great as you allow yourself to be. It is well and good to learn from another's shadow, but a true maestro teachers you to cast your own. I will not teach you to play like me, or anybody else. I will help you discover your own music –the song of your soul –only then will you understand what I truly mean." The Phantom reached for Harry's hands –they were cold like his own –and placed them on the piano keys. The young professor stared at him.

"Is this really happening? Am I really going to be coached by a spectral maestro? Should I start calling you *Erik?" The Phantom laughed at Harry's awed state –even his laughter sounded surreal,, as if he rarely did it, Harry mused.

"This isn't exactly an opera house, but I am aware of what you are pertaining to," said the masked maestro. "Well, my dear protégé, do you think I should be christened 'Erik'?" Harry looked thoughtful for a few seconds before sighing. "No, Your name is not Erik. But if you are indeed a specter –a mere pigment of my imagination –maybe I could give you a name?" The Phantom paused, his dark eyes clouding as if in deep thought. "If you make it through all of your lessons, I shall give you leave to name me," He gestured at Harry's hands. "Now I need to assess your ability –"

"I can't read notes," Harry admitted sheepishly. "I don't have any formal training whatsoever. I had a madman out to kill me for most of my life –you don't have any idea how much time that takes away from piano lessons. I play by the ear –"

"Fascinating," the Phantom gave him a small smile. "You never seem to follow the norm now, do you? Well, it may be a little too ambitious to start now, but you don't need me for basic music lessons. I'm here to test your ability to follow directions, Harry. A good protégé knows how to heed his master's words." He glanced at Harry's hands on the keyboard before facing him again. "Close your eyes." Harry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he did as told. The Phantom grinned.  _'The brat may not be hopeless at all.'_  he stood up from his seat and took up the space behind his now, protégé. "Play. I do not care what it is that you perform. Play the first thing that comes to mind –"

"With my eyes closed?"

"Remember," the Phantom smirked. "That which is essential, cannot be seen by the naked eye.

"You are quoting the Little Prince," said Harry despite himself.

"Paraphrasing," the Phantom corrected him. "You are getting way off-tangent, Harry. Let me remind you that this is a test of obedience, not musical prowess –"

"Fine," Harry sighed. "Sorry, but don't blame me if your ears start to bleed." The Phantom gently touched his shoulder. "I doubt that a specter such as I could bleed. But I appreciate the sentiment. Now begin, before I change my mind and take back my offer." Harry need no further admonishing. He wasn't going to turn down a chance to learn from a maestro –spectral or not. He racked his brain for the opening notes top the one song that was constantly playing in his mind…

"Play for me, Harry. Do not worry about your fingers. Play from the heart. Show me what is inside your soul…"

Harry found himself obeying the Phantom, his very own version of the spectral maestro. The man's voice was enough to put him in a trance. There were questions in his head, doubts in his heart –but all those melted away the moment his hands came to life. Why should he care who, or what the Phantom was? Or where he came from, or how he came to be? Here he was, living his life-long fantasy. It may not have been the same man under the mask, but did that matter now? This illusion was as closest as he could get to being thought by Severus Snape on his one true, albeit hidden, passion.

Was it a dream? A drug-induced illusion? Harry pushed all the thoughts plaguing his head away –there was time for those later. Right now, he wanted to prove to his maestro that he was worth the time and effort –just like he had wanted to prove himself to Snape all those years. He pulled forth all the emotions that defined the very core of his soul. His fingers began moving on their own accord. The young professor knew he was playing something, 'Music of The Night' supposedly, but for some reason, he could not hear a thing. He wanted to open his eyes badly and see why, but the haunting voice came back whispering, as if right next to his ear.

"Keep playing, Harry. Do not strain to hear it. Let it run over you. Let it go… Do not hold back. Let it go, Harry…"

Those softly- spoken words emboldened the new Potions Master; he was hitting the keys harder in rapid succession. The tempo was increasing… It felt angry –the song from within him was hard and rough –was that how he truly felt?

"Let it go… Let it fall… Do it Harry…"

The delicate fingers were now moving feverishly. His tempo was impossibly increasing still. Each key stroke was becoming more deliberate; Harry did not expect this at all. Was the song of his soul this angry? Violent? Aggressive? Was he keeping that all inside of him? He felt the climax building. His fingers were starting to hurt, and he knew he should stop –but he found himself seemingly unable to… However, just when Harry thought that he would already explode from the mounting emotions running through him, he heard the soft whisper once more.

"Stop."

Harry's hands were still, his eyes remained closed. He was almost too afraid to open them.

"Well done, Harry. Now, open your eyes."

Slowly, Harry complied. The moment he did, tears began to flow soundlessly. While he was playing in that trance, it felt rather heavy, somewhat contrived. His fingers moved angrily and his tempo ran like crazy. But now, after it all, somehow as the tears fell, it felt like he was also washing away a large portion of that heaviness. A small smile found its way to his lips, a sigh of relief. He then turned to his maestro. "I wish –"

But he found himself talking to nothing but air. Harry blinked as he was abruptly brought back to reality.

The Phantom of his dreams had just done its disappearing act.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

He'd have to be careful. He'd have to be really careful for this act to work. He did not expect Potter –he though he knew the young man through and through –he was wrong. Completely wrong.

For one, Potter had been quick to accept his existence: the emerald-eyed professor latched on to his spectral Phantom persona easily. If it was because the Gryffindor was a gullible mess or because he was immensely convincing, the masked Phantom did not bother to discern. Maybe Potter was just a hopeless fanatic of his own favorite musical. Something, however, burrowed into his musings and grabbed a hold of them, Maybe there was a deeper reason to Harry Potter agreeing to be his protégé.

For someone who could not read notes, someone with no formal training whatsoever, the young man was beyond passable. He had heard Potter play the night before, and it was brilliant; seeing him perform however, had been –there was no other word for it –consuming. Yes, Potter's rendition was violent, bitter, angry –regretful, even –but there was no denying the Lion's talent. Given enough time and proper direction, he could be a virtuoso…

But the bitterness had to go, the regret, the remorse. The Phantom sighed. Potter was so much like him that it was scary. The masked man sat in the darkness of the Shrieking Shack's cellar alone in his thoughts. He'd have to maintain the mirage, the illusion, the mystery of the Phantom. He'd have to discover how to get Potter to open up and trust him. He'd have to make the young man see the light behind the shadow of living for a dead man's memory. It was tall order. He shook his head. "What have I gotten myself into, Potter? Forget the shrine. You ought to be sacrificing virgins for me," The Phantom mused. "Death must have addled my brains somehow… that should be it. Not even Lily Potter's ghost can force me to do the things I do for you." Moonlight streamed through the large cracks on the floor, illuminating the masked man's partially concealed face. "Loath I am to admit Potter, but I actually might be caring for you."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The next morning flew by in haste and soon Harry found himself sitting behind his private office desk, later that night. He was torn between wanting to stay awake, and willing for sleep to come and take him.

Had it been all a dream? It all felt too real though… the rush of playing for the Phantom, the relief he felt after releasing those pent up emotions, the awe of realizing that the man had managed to leave unnoticed… No, the right word would have to be surreal…

But was it really and elaborate illusion? The Phantom touched him; he felt the man right next to him. Can dreams even be tangible like that? What about the man's words? Did he exist in that room, and that room alone? Did it really matter if he was real or not? If it was Snape's ghost or a superb illusion of a deprived fantasy? If last night happened, or not? Harry felt a monster of a headache coming. It was all too confusing. If only he could see the man gain… He will, won't he? The Phantom promised to teach him. He promised. Harry shook his head. He was holding onto the word of an illusion. He was really… losing it. He got off his desk and almost rushed towards the hidden door. It was just as he had left it last night: empty.

Harry sighed as he took a spot on the bench. He stared at the gleaming polished keys as if willing them to give an answer to the puzzle in his head. After a few minutes though, the emerald-eyed man decided that waiting for piano keys to talk was futile. He did the next best thing though. He played them. Remembering the Phantom's words last night, he closed his eyes and let the emotions run through him: confusion, yearning, desire hesitance, guilt and sorrow. His fingers were deliberate and gentle; they were exacting and unsure at the same time, But unlike last night, Harry could hear the melody he was playing now: Music of The Night. He stopped upon realizing what he was doing.

"Pity, I was beginning to enjoy that," a deep voice to his right said. Harry's eyes flew open, and found himself eye-to-eye with none other than the Phantom. The man was staring at him in fascination. "Why did you stop, Harry?"

"How –what –where did you come from?" Harry stammered. The masked man smiled as he walked towards the stunned professor and sat beside him. Harry found his breath hitching as he felt the warm, familiar presence once more. "You tell me, Harry. Where do Phantoms go when they are not seeing to young and naïve protégés in the dead of the night?" The Phantom asked him right back. Harry stared at him.

"You mean to tell me that you have a super-secret lair somewhere below the dungeons?"

"Something like that," the masked man sighed. "Why did you stop playing a while ago?" A frown crossed Harry's face. He stood up and walked towards the far side of the room, away from the Phantom. "I –It didn't sound right –it didn't feel right," he said scornfully. The Phantom watched his young protégé from his spot on the bench. Despite the dislike evident in the emerald-eyed professor's tone, he still had a wistful look on his prematurely aged face. The maestro frowned. "Why is that?" he asked. The protégé met the dark, inquiring gaze and let out a deep breath.

"No matter what I do, something always feels missing for me when I try to play that song –"

"Music of The Night?"

Harry nodded. The masked man paused. "Just that song in particular?" he clarified. Harry nodded again. "It was the song I had wanted to play last night, but apparently, my soul had another melody in mind. I don't know, it's weird. It's as if I'll never get it right –" he shook his head. "I'll never do it justice."

"Your soul is angry, remorseful –lost." The Phantom looked at him thoughtfully. "You have so much regret and bitterness, sorrow and confusion… until you know what holds you back, what pulls you down…" The masked man gestured next to himself. "Come and sit next to me, Harry. We'll figure this out together. Sit with me and close your eyes while –"

"If you disappear on me –"

"I won't," the spectral maestro assured him with a smile. Harry found his protests melting at that. He sighed and closed his eyes. HE could still feel the Phantom's warmth against his side. He relaxed considerably. He then felt the Phantom's arm brush against his. Harry cold not help but shiver in anticipation of what was to be his second lesson with his masked maestro. In his mind's eye, he imagined how the man looked –as he was wont to do for another, many years ago.

"I will play Music of The Night. I want you to empty your mind of everything else and listen to me –to my voice. I want you to tell me the first thing you see in your mind's eye at any given point you hear me say your name. Understood?" Harry nodded wordlessly, and the musical trance began. The familiar melody commenced and the younger man suddenly found himself bombarded by all sorts of images in his head. Together, they formed a massive grey cloud that seemingly boded quite a heavy thunderstorm. Soon enough, he heard his master's soft whisper against the commanding music.

"Harry."

From within the unidentifiable mass of images, one emerged –one that had constantly plagued Harry ever since. "Candles," he replied. The music swelled. The picture in his mind's eye began to change back into grey shadows. Harry felt an inexplicable unease when the candles disappeared, but he held on.

"Harry," came the whisper once more. A different vision came forth this time.

"Shadows," Harry said, almost automatically. They were more prominent than the candles, crowding his mind. The unease graduated into dread. He had a feeling of how this would progress. The melody seemed faster, much more aggressive as the seconds ticked by. But just when the shadows had faded into the background once more, the new Potions Master heard his name again.

"Harry." The Phantom's voice seemed much softer, but closer –more intimate now. It was as if the masked man was speaking right next to his ear. Harry could not help but tremble in a weird combination of anticipation and apprehension. The unexpected effect of the man's ethereal voice pulled another image out of the storm cloud in Harry's head. With it came a permeating sense of coldness and despair.

"D –Darkness." Harry found himself unable to see a thing, but he knew that the abyss he was witnessing was not an absence of an image. There was something within the pitch-blackness –something horrible yet familiar. He had wanted to close his mind's eye –if only that was possible… Was this the very thing that held him back? Why? How? To Harry's right, the Phantom too, was sensing his protégé's discomfort. He kept playing, but his dark eyes maintained a sideway glance towards the young man. Harry's eyes were tightly closed, his lips were drawn into a thin line. Deep creases lined his face. The masked man felt a pang of worry cross his guts, seriously contemplating if he should pull the young man out of the musically-induced trance. However, a quiet sob escaping the said man's lips sealed the masked man's decision. He stopped playing, his hands gently landing on his protégé's now shaking shoulders. "Harry –"

Harry heard the call, but did not feel the restraining hand on him. His mind automatically called forth the next image in his head. Harry felt torn. He knew he should say it, but for some reason, he could not bring himself to acknowledge what he saw. An internal struggle ensued: Harry was caught in between denial and terror. He began to tremble violently, his lips opened in a silent scream.

The Phantom's eyes widened. How was this happening? Potter was supposed to go in a deep trance to open up his subconscious –not like this. The young man was obviously going into shock. "Harry!" The man's baritone rose into a panic. Harry was now shaking madly in his seat, cold sweat breaking upon his brows –his lips were still moving soundlessly. The Phantom wasted no further time. He had forgone shaking his protégé awake; instead, he took a more direct approach. Harry's body was becoming dangerously pale and cold now, his eyes flickering rapidly under the closed lids. His skin was starting to show bluish tinges.

'SLAP!'

Harry's eyes flew open upon impact. The shakes departed him and warmth began to seep back into his pale form. His breathing was still labored however, and his mind was still hazy. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring at the darkest pair of obsidian eyes, looking at him in genuine concern. Harry frowned. That shade looked familiar. Was this still a part of his vision? The eyes in front of him hovered closer… was he looking up… at the ceiling? His other senses came back next. His back appeared to be cradled in something sturdy… was that a pair of arms supporting him? He tried to switch to a more comfortable position as those dark eyes followed his every move. It did not hurt; sure, his left cheek stung as if he'd been slapped, but his body felt surprisingly fine. He tried to lean forward, as if to sit up, but found his vision spinning as he did so.

"Harry, don't move." A deep baritone told him softly. It had the same ethereal quality of the Phantom's voice… but what about that inflection? Had he not heard that before? Harry scrunched up his face in an attempt to clear the cobwebs in his head away. He closed his eyes before taking a deep breath. Something… something from the depths of his mind was trying to claw towards the surface… what was it? He tried to sit up again, in vain.

"Harry, stop –"

There it was again. Whenever he heard his name, he felt an inexplicable jolt in his consciousness. His vision kept clouding up until he could see no more. But when his name was spoken, a certain image would come up from the chaotic mess… blood, there was so much blood… memories –silvery, swirling memories in a pensieve –were they his? Eyes –the darkest he'd ever seen –so much fire, so much passion… Then death, tears of despair, darkness… Harry felt his heart beating wildly. He then remembered the Phantom, the trance, and what his last vision had been. Looking into the eyes on him, he minded not whatever reality he was in: trance, dream, illusion… he shook his head and softly spoke of the image in his mind's eye, before passing out completely.

"Se –Severus,"

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 4-

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	6. Learn to be Lonely

**Chapter 5: Learn to Be Lonely**

"Sev –Severus," Harry had managed to say before going completely limp in the Phantom's arms. The masked man froze. Could the young professor have managed to fund out? He shook his head inwardly. The Gryffindor kept surprising him. At first, it was finding his secret passion out; then, it was the young man's musical inclination –and now, this? How was he to know that Potter would react this unstably after being put into a trance? Candles, shadows, darkness… he did not need to be a genius to know how those three came together and what picture they painted. It was Harry's last word that unnerved him. He shifted the weight in his arms and stood up. He needed to get the emerald-eyed professor into a much more comfortable position. He headed for the man's –his old –bedroom.

Was it still a part of the images the trance had unearthed? He knew that Potter blamed himself for his death, but he had no idea it was this debilitating to the young man. It wasn't just a mere 'survivor's' guilt that Potter was suffering from; it was something deeper, something raw, something much more complex than he had expected. He gently deposited his burden on the king-sized, four-poster bed –the same bed that had been his for so long. Who knew the brat was a sentimental loon? The Phantom glanced around the darkened room. A whispered 'Lumos' lent a small glimmer of light in it. The masked man's eyes travelled back towards the pale, slumbering face of his student, and now, protégé. Five years had changed a lot, he mused. The once youthfully handsome face had put on a few more lines. A darker shadow was under his eyes and a ghost of a stubble graced the twenty-three year old's jaw line; He was looking at a man who was forced to grow up at warp-speed.

'Severus' he had said. The Gryffindor called him 'Severus'. When did the brat start calling him that? Certainly it wasn't when he was still alive, and certainly not to his face… What was he missing here? He stared intently at the man, who until recently, he had not realized, that he would do anything for. General consensus might claim that the son looked like the father, but really, in the absence of the tell-tale, round-rimmed spectacles –that did not go unnoticed to the Phantom –the similarities weren't that obvious; Potter Sr., despite his tragic and untimely death, had lived a happy life, surrounded by family and friends, growing up to his full potential –everything Potter Jr. missed out on in his early years. Waxing sentimental neither was he like his mother. Sure, they shared the same eyes and fierce loyalty to those they care about, but that was where the differences began. Lily Evans was fiery, driven and full of life. She, like her husband, lived a life worth living, no matter the morbid ending. Her son, while passionate and purposeful, had an angry, jaded soul =he lived for others and their expectations of him his whole life. It was a mystery how he had managed for so long.

The masked man found himself gently caressing the young professor's cheek. Potter had immaculately smooth skin, long thick lashes, and a perfectly-pouted, rose-hued lips. He wasn't conventionally handsome, neither was he unattractive. If he would be pressed to describe the young man, the Phantom reckoned, the word that he would use to do so would be appealing. Even a man like he was would not be able to deny Potter's attractiveness. Despite the hardships he had been through, it was undeniable –although rather ironic –that Potter remained delicately beautiful. The maestro shook his head. He was lauding the Gryffindor's positive traits… where was this coming from? Sympathy? Loyalty? Concern? What was he missing in this picture?

A soft whimper escaping Harry's lips brought the Phantom back to reality. He wished he could see into Potter's subconscious –so that he may finally figure out what was causing the young man's distress, but a Legilimency would be too risky. He had taught the brat before, and gullible or not, Potter would certainly recognize his magical signature and piece everything together. He doubted that the young man would let him off the hook when that happens… he can then say goodbye to a peaceful afterlife.

There was more to this… the dungeons, the shadows, Music of The Night. There was more to the Potions Mastery, the guilt, the wanting to walk in a dead man's shoes. But what was it? What was causing Harry Potter such despair?

"Sev'rus…" Was Potter dreaming about the dead now? How often did nightmares plague his subconscious? A gentle hand brushed against the rather clammy forehead of the slumbering man. Thick covers were drawn up to the exposed chin, then a soft 'Nox', and Harry Potter lay comfortably in the darkness of the night, alone once more.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The next morning, Harry was having his worst Monday as of yet. His first class was right after breakfast. He woke up half-way through the morning meal and barely made it in time to meet with his second-year Gryffindor and Slytherins. As expected, Red and Green were always an explosive combination. He had missed his morning coffee, and ten minutes into his students brewing a burn salve, three sabotaged cauldrons already erupted. He took 50 points –a piece –from the six that were involved and dismissed the class before he lost it and took off more. Draco and Hermione will not be above killing him if he made them lose the House Cup.

By lunch time however, he had taken a record-breaking total of 885 points from all four Houses. A snickering Aurora Sinistra told him that the last time things were this bad was during Snape's first year of teaching –all four Houses were sporting negative figures by the end of the former Headmaster's first week of teaching; well, the dour man was responsible for Ravenclaw's Hufflepuff's and Gryffindor's points being taken off. Slytherin's negative scores were a combined effort of McGonagall, Sprout and Flitwick. Harry groaned and excused himself from the table. He had a class right after and he did not want to throw up all over his OWL students.

Said OWL students fared slightly better. Harry had only had to scream once –when they wouldn't shut up while gathering ingredients. At least no more points were taken. All eight cauldrons of the Draught of Peace were successfully bottled and labeled. Harry thought that he might need a vial soon, side effects of nausea, be damned.

He had a free period next, which he thought he could spend in peace, when a scowling Hermione and Draco dropped by his classroom to complain about the points taken off their Houses (375 and 330 respectively). He had spent the required 30 minutes listening to a pregnant witch rant, before making a show of sighing resignedly and reinstating half of what he took from Gryffindor. When Draco expectedly protested how unfair it was that Harry should only give points back to his former House, the emerald-eyed man said something that sounded awfully a lot like 'payback' under his breath, before politely feigning the need to pee and running towards the nearest bathroom. Good thing the blonde Defense Master took the hint and did not follow him in there. Friend or not, Harry would have hexed him, had he been that insistent.

His last class that day was just right before dinner, 4th year Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Harry decided that he did not want to clean up after exploding and or botched up cauldrons anymore that day, so he had them review chapters on restorative potions and summarize them. Despite his earlier misgivings on assigning essays, he had thought that in that situation, a headache would be much preferable than a lost limb. At least his 4th years had passable handwriting. He decided to skip dinner and go straight ahead to grading in his private office.

The fire was crackling when he arrived. There was no riddle on his entrance wall this time, thankfully. His standard password –which he had not thought of changing, surprisingly –had worked. He dumped the scrolls on top of his desk and got settled behind it. He took out a quill, a jar of red ink, and began the mammoth task.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was lightly snoring in his desk when the Phantom arrived that night. The masked man carefully approached the slumbering professor. All papers on the table this time, had been graded. He took one and read the written comments on the margins. He cold not help but smile:

**Mr. Atkins, I commend your use of block letters in writing your essay. It does not make much sense, and your information on the Mandrake is completely wrong, but at least I do not get a blinding headache from reading your work. Next time, try to borrow some common sense from your girlfriend, Miss Harper –maybe her notes too –and you may just get an 'A'. Good luck.**

"How… politely rude." The Phantom replaced the essay back on the table, his dark eyes now resting on the man slumped on it. The young professor looked like he could use the sleep. The masked man sighed. His increasing concern for Potter's welfare was becoming alarming. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece once, before deciding to meet his protégé for another night. His questions would have to remain unanswered until then. A wave of an ebony wand conjured a single thorn-less rose in full bloom –his own 'I was here' note. A thin black ribbon was tied around its stem. The Phantom carefully placed it next to the sleeping man. Then, he was off.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The chilly night air caressed the Phantom's half-bare face as he traversed the shadowed grounds of Hogwarts.

" _ **Se-Severus…"**_

It was barely a whisper, but it held so much emotion, so much question, so much confusion behind it. When was the last time he had heard the same plea?

" _ **Professor –please…"**_

Her remembered looking into those startlingly emerald eyes. How could he not? They were the last thing he saw…

" _ **You –you have your mother's eyes…"**_

" _ **Profes –Severus –no! Don't leave me!"**_

The Phantom froze in his steps. Did he hear that right? They say that on one's death bed, the last to go was one's hearing. That part of his former life's memory had always been hazy. Was it but his mind playing tricks on him? Did it really happen? Why was it all becoming clearer just now?

" _ **Severus, don't go! I –I need you, please!"**_

He felt his knees go weak. A dead oak tree broke his fall as his strength left him all of a sudden. A frigid breeze played with the inky strands of hair covering his bemasked face as he fell forward. Did the trance affect not only Potter, but him as well? The ground had met his hands and knees with a force enough to dislodge his stark-white mask, but he made no move to secure it… How did it escape him? How did he miss the despair and agony in the young man's voice? Since last night he had been wondering non-stop… Was this it? Was this finally the cause of his protégé's despair? His guilt? His anger? His… loneliness? Another calm breeze blew as the mask came off. The Phantom's pallid face met the cold, dark night head on. The moon hid behind thick, gray clouds, as did most of the stars. He stared at the fallen mask on the damp grass. Why did it unnerve him? Yes, it had been one of those episodes in his life that he did not quite remember right away, but why shold it matter to him? Images of that day came rushing back. He felt the pain, he'd witnessed the shakes and trembles, he'd heard the anguish…

How did he miss that look in Potter's eyes?

" _ **Severus, please –"**_

Longing, regret, betrayal? Was that remorse he felt? No, he did not owe the brat a thing. But why did it feel that way? He picked up the mask and replaced it on his face. He thought back to the rose he had left on the young professor's desk. Suddenly, 'regret' had a whole new meaning to him.

Swiftly, he righted himself. And as the moon eventually emerged from behind the dark clouds, the masked Phantom made himself blend into the shadows yet again, alone in his confused thoughts.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry woke up the following morning with a serious crick in his neck. It was just his luck that the first day he had managed a full 8 hours of sleep since coming to Hogwarts, and it had to be slumped atop his desk. He dutifully stretched his sore muscles. When his mind and vision finally cleared, the first thing he did was check his graded papers. Okay, no rude comments this time –so far, so good. He really hadn't gotten the time to investigate on that incident, nor the breach in his security… Surely, they could be just harmless pranks, but one can never be too sure. And besides, he'd want to know who'd dare –and managed to –prank him. He'd give them a pat on their back for their efforts and guts –before hexing them to oblivion… if only he had the time to spare. Ever since the Phantom however…

Harry straightened himself up like a jack knife. He slept soundly all through the night –he missed meeting with his maestro! Did the man come by to see him? What would he say? Wold he still come back? Should he check the piano room? Such thoughts ran through Harry's head –until he saw what else was on his desk.

With wide-awake eyes and slightly trembling hands, he picked up the rose. Reflex made him bring the still-fresh bloom to his nose and inhale its sweet aroma. He had had his fair share of admirers –of both sexes –and he'd, in the past, received bouquets. But somehow, this particular solitary rose appealed to him in a much deeper, more personal level –even before he had noticed the black satin ribbon tied around its thorn-less stem.

Harry's breathing hastened as he felt his pulse quicken. The rose was not from a mere admirer –and the meaning it carried was far from admiration –or was it? He knew exactly where it came from, and if he was right, what it meant. He would be seeing more of his masked maestro. His own spectral 'Angel of Music' had just left Harry his own version of a calling card.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was still toying with the thorn-less rose at the breakfast table when Hermione approached him with a huge smile on her blissfully-plumped face. Pregnancy really suited her, in Harry's opinion.

"This early in the year, and you already have an admirer?" She gestured towards the flower in Harry's hand. "A little firstie perhaps?" She teased him. Harry frowned a bit at her before eying the rose in his hand. _'So Hermione could see it too?'_  He shrugged and thought no more of his spectral maestro's seemingly tangible calling card. His mind was too dazed to process things logically at that moment. Harry rolled his eyes and showed her the rose for closer inspection.

"Draco's practicing with the Slytherins then?" he asked. Hermione nodded. "He beat me for booking schedules." She took the rose from Harry and gave it a customary sniff. "Next weekend though, the pitch is all yours. You'd better whip that team into –" she frowned all of a sudden. She stared at the flower warily before turning back to her best friend. "But Harry, this –I mean, who –"

With a sigh, Harry took the rose from the flustered-looking witch. Hermione's mouth was agape. "Merlin, Harry, who gave this to you? Are you aware of the symbolism? You're a 'Phantom' fan, right? Surely you must know what this means –"

"Yes, Mione. I am," Harry breathed, now staring at the red bloom he held tightly in one hand. His other hand was absently toying with the black satin bow. "As from whom this is, I assure you, it's no little firstie." He then gently laid it down before reaching for his cup of Earl Grey. He took a sip. Hermione looked like she had wanted to push the topic further. Harry was almost like a brother to her –he rarely kept secrets. But when he actually did, she knew that he had his reasons. And whatever those were, it was always bets to just wait until Harry was ready to tell her. Prying would just make him clam up the more. She sighed. Harry seemed okay –a little stressed maybe, but otherwise fine. Her friend did not exactly grow up ideally, but she knew Harry was strong. Whatever it was, he'll get through it.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry sat on the low piano bench later that night, the single red rose in one hand, his holly and phoenix feather wand in another. He seemed to be staring off into space with his arms to his sides, when suddenly, his whole body tensed. His grip on the wand tightened. He held the rose up to his eye level as if inspecting it.

"What is it that you regret?" He asked the unmoving shadow to his right.

"Everybody has regrets, Harry." It was the Phantom. "Why do you ask?" He inquired back. Harry gripped his wand until his knuckles were already white. He then whipped it and pointed it directly at the masked man's heart. "Give me one reason to trust you after what you did the other night."

The Phantom eyed the wand before looking directly into his protégé's blazing emerald eyes. "I have disappointed you greatly." It wasn't a question.

"What are you going on about?" Harry asked, looking confused. The masked man reached for the rose in Harry's other hand, completely ignoring the wand that was still trained on him.

"I regret disappointing you," the Phantom took the rose, and with a wave of his hand, made it disappear into thin air. Harry blinked and lowered his wand with a disappointed sigh. "I was wanting to keep that." The maestro looked at his protégé curiously. "A bit sentimental, are we?" Harry sighed once more.

"Pathetic as it may sound, it is the first time flowers actually meant something to me," he admitted, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "It might've meant 'regret' to you, but –" he shook his head. "Never mind." The young man then stood up from the bench and turned his back on the Phantom. "You won't understand. Just go –like you always do. Go. Leave." A few seconds of silence ensued before the emerald-eyed man heard the rustle of clothing –a cloak falling on the stone floor. Then, footsteps approaching. A pale hand gently touched Harry's shoulder.

"Look at me, Harry."

' _ **Look… at… me…"**_

Harry felt himself wanting to heed what the ethereal voice was bidding him to do, but he fought hard to hold his ground. The Phantom sensed the conflict in his protégé. He moved closer until their bodies almost touched, and tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder.

' _ **Look… at… me…"**_

"Look at me, Harry," a little louder, more forceful now. Harry had no other option this time. He turned to face his maestro. The heat the masked man radiated contrasted greatly to the cold dungeon air. It made him feel heady for some reason… Harry shook his head inwardly. How could an illusion, a specter, have such a profound effect on him? He couldn't very well call the man an illusion now, could he? He saw him, heard him, felt him… Harry felt his whole body flush as he ,et the Phantom's face. The man still had his mask on, but the emotions coming from those dark eyes more than made up for half of his face that Harry could not see. The deep, fathomless pools of obsidian latched onto his own emerald ones like Devil's Snare in the absence of light. It grabbed onto him, onto his very heart and soul, held onto his very essence, his very core, with a promise to never let go… _'What is happening?'_  Harry thought amidst the brewing emotions inside him –the very mere thought of it floored him. _'How can he affect me like this?'_

To Harry's unawareness, the intense struggle within him was reciprocated by the very cause of it. The Phantom felt the inexplicable effect of the young professor's gaze and presence on him.

' _How… it was never like this, never. Why –why is it happening now?'_  For some reason, he could not take his eyes off of the Gryffindor, not when for what seemed like the first time, he could finally see through those brilliant green orbs… the spark in them, the flame that threatened to consume every part of his dark soul and shroud it in burning, blinding light… Why had he not seen this before?

" _ **Severus, don't go! I –I need you, please!"**_

Did he cause this? Was he the reason for this young man's fire? Did he take that away from him when he had died? Was his death the very cause of the despair of Harry Potter's soul?

" _ **I need you, please!"**_

Did Potter really –heaven forbid –need him? Looking into the young man's eyes now gave him his dreaded answer. The question was, would he be willing to do it? The Phantom sighed inwardly.

"I am here, Harry," the deep baritone whispered, inadvertently breaking the spell between them two. The masked man took a step backward, as if to assess his protégé. The young Potions Master's eyes were still shining, but a little less so –now that the enchantment had been broken. The Phantom replaced his hand on Harry's cheek and gently cupped it.

"I am here until you no longer need me."

The words flowed effortlessly from the pale, thin lips –like they were meant to. Harry's countenance visibly relaxed after hearing them, The Phantom noticed this and breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe there was a way to do this… to bring back that spark, that life in those eyes. Wordlessly, the masked man guided the young professor back to the bench. He sat down and motioned for his protégé to do the same.

"Do you know the difference between a dream and an illusion, Harry?"

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-END OF CHAPTER 5-

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	7. Wandering Child

**Chapter 6: Wandering Child**

"Do you know the difference between a dream and an illusion, Harry?" The Phantom asked, poising his hands over the keys. The sleeves of his white button-down shirt were rolled up to his elbows. His arms were as pale as his hands. Harry could see the tiny hairs covering the man's forearms. He shook his head.

"No."

The Phantom eyed him momentarily before nodding in understanding.

"The mind creates the illusion. The heart begets the dream." The masked man's hands began moving and Harry found himself listening once more to the anthem of his soul, Music of The Night. The Phantom played softly, as if not wanting to take away from the stillness of the night itself. "Remember the first time I had asked you to play?"

"Yes," Harry nodded, still not taking his eyes off of his maestro's hands.

"This sing is about escape, Harry. It is about freeing your mind of burdens, the mundanity of everyday life. It is about letting go of what you know is real, what you know is there and letting your imagination take you to a place that does not exist." The Phantom spoke as his fingers continued caressing the piano keys. "Your mind creates the illusion of things that you think you should see, what you think you should feel… things you think that should have happened." He closed his eyes. "And when your mind is in chaos, it only begets a chaotic illusion, as it should. You feel something that is missing –you find your heart missing something that never was because your mind makes you do so. It is only when your heart is stronger than your head that you manage to escape reality –only when your dreams become more vivid than any vision, when you manage to return to the unburdened ways of a carefree child that you are able to be free, wander and take flight. It is the emotions, Harry, that make music truly magical as it is supposed to be."

Harry stayed silent for a while, as if contemplating on his master's words. Were they still talking about music though? "I don't understand," he admitted, biting his lip. The Phantom stopped playing.

"Who is this man –the one you see in your mind?"

Harry looked taken aback by the question, but answered truthfully still. "A hero, a master like you." he shrugged. "At first I thought you were him, but –" A deep sigh escaped his lips. "He died in my arms many years ago."

"Is that so?" The Phantom clarified, a mixture of caution and awe evident in his eyes. Potter did see it in his vision… "And you blame yourself for his death?"

Harry averted his eyes and instead, stared at the moving shadows on the walls. "Yes."

"Are you to blame?" The Phantom asked. But when Harry moved to answer, the masked man stopped him. "No, Harry, think hard. I would like you to let go of all the illusions of his death and tell me what it is instead that you see. I will ask you again, are you to blame?" Harry met his eyes. There was a challenge issued in that tone; those dark eyes on him were no different. Harry looked away. His own emerald gaze latched onto an unseen tableau, far off to his left. The Phantom began playing again. "What is it that you dream about, Harry?" The question cut right through the young man's stupor. He looked at his maestro inquiringly.

"When I'm asleep, or do you mean like goals in life?'

"Those that you call 'dreams' when you are slumbering are mere illusions, if you take into consideration what I said earlier," the Phantom explained. "Your subconscious mind creates them. I am pertaining to aspirations." With this, Harry looked thoughtful for a while. "Well, I want to develop a cure for lycanthropy someday. I want to publish as Potions Manual for those who are challenged like I was before –"

"Challenged?" The Phantom clarified. He had stopped playing again. Harry actually smiled at his confused tone. "Yeah, who would've thought? I am a certified Potioneer now, but five years ago, I didn't even know the difference between 'chopped finely' and 'minced'." He chuckled lightly. "Add that to the fact that my Potions Professor hated me with a passion and all the Slytherins in my class would always sabotage my potion when I'm not looking –no wonder my work always ended up exploding or just utterly useless."

"I see," the Phantom said plainly, although he had a pondering look in his eyes. "What about dreams for yourself? These are noble aspirations that would certainly benefit other people –anything for your own selfish gain?" Harry raised an eyebrow at the phrasing of the question but said nothing about it. He shrugged. "I've never given it much thought." The masked maestro frowned as he resumed playing.

"Why did you take up a Mastery in Potions if you hated it?"

"I didn't," Harry told him. "Potions hated me, but I never hated it. I've always found it fascinating." The Phantom looked quite surprised at first, but quickly recovered. "Will the same thing apply for the professor you speak of?"

"I –Yes," said Harry quietly, looking away again. "I never hated him. I was afraid of him, yes. But ever since…" His voice trailed off, leaving the sentiment hanging. The room was enveloped with silence for what seemed like hours, until the Phantom stood up from his seat. He picked up his cloak and unfurled it like a cape. He then draped it on his shoulders. "Ninety-five percent of the time, feelings are reciprocated. Do remember that, Harry." Harry stared at him.

"Are you leaving?"

"I have errands to do," the Phantom smiled. "Even spectral masters need to pay bills and such."

"Should I close my eyes?" Harry offered. The masked man actually laughed at his words. "Someday, my protégé, I will teach you my disappearing act –but not now." Harry nodded and closed his eyes.

"Goodnight, Phantom."

A swish of a cloak was heard, then a whisper.

"Goodnight, Harry."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry's schedule was the least hectic on Wednesdays. He only had one third year class after lunch. Thankfully, there were no exploding cauldrons that day. Monday's 'Points-Off Palooza' was probably still fresh in people's minds. The young Potions Master decided to head down to his personal lab right after his last class. The Hospital Wing needed a new batch of Calming Draught. Barely five days into term and the homesick firsties have already upended the supply he had brewed last summer.

He had six cauldrons going in a matter of minutes. He set the timer to alert him on its completion while he washed and prepared the opaque crystal vials. As he had yet to issue a detention to a wayward student –surprisingly –he was stuck with the hopelessly mundane task of washing and cleaning up. Not that he minded though, it was something that he was effortlessly good at, Potions Master or not. He certainly had much practice with Snape…

Harry found himself thinking less of the man lately –and whenever he would find himself doing so, it seemed to not hurt as much as it did before. He almost felt guilty about it, but ever since the Phantom had invaded his nightly dreams…

' _Illusion,'_  he corrected himself. The Phantom was an illusion –something his mind had created to fill in the void of something that never was –how could he not be? The masked man seemed so real. But as Harry had learned along the way, his maestro was as real as he would make him. And in his mind, the Phantom was as real as Harry himself.

The timer went off and the young professor began to bottle the Calming Draught and Pepper-Up Potions he had brewed. He carefully stoppered each vial, sealed it with emerald melted wax and labeled it with the brewing date. He added his initials 'HJP' on the bottom right corner of the label as was customary. He found the whole procedure quite relaxing.

He wasn't lying when he'd told the Phantom of his fascination for the art of Potions-Making. He was already hooked even before Snape had finished his Welcome Speech in Harry's first year. He wasn't lying about his dream of inventing a cure for lycanthropy and publishing that instructional manual for beginners…

But what about for himself? Did he really not have dreams for his own?

He never thought much about it –that was the truth. When you expect to die facing an evil madman before you even turn eighteen, you tend not to make plans for your future, let alone dream.

Was there anything that he wanted for his 'own selfish gain'?

Harry cast a 'Tempus'. It was half-past seven in the evening when he had finally finished all the vials. He could still catch a late dinner in the Great Hall if he wanted to, but he decided against it. He called instead for Odin and asked for a plate of sandwiches and a bottle of German wine. He poured himself a generous glass.

His mind traveled back to the words of the Phantom. He knew the spectral man was right. His mind was in chaos. He was living in the past, amongst the shadows, for something that never was…

Was it really an illusion that led him to this? He just wanted to make sense of a man's useless death, a man that deserved so much more than a post-humus recognition… was that sp wrong? Were his methods wrong? He wanted to realize what it had meant to dream, to feel for himself, but how? He had been existing in this reality for so long. Is there still a chance to break away? Will he want to?

Maybe that was why he could not play 'Music of the Night' the way he thought it should be played –the way Snape, or even the Phantom, played it. The song spoke of trust, passion, and an underlying promise –in exchange for leaving the past behind. Whenever he played it, his mind would almost always instantly hold on to that image of Severus Snape in front of his piano… then dying in his bloodied arms…

But how to let go? How do you let go of the one thing that mattered to you? How do you forget the very thing that brought you to where you were right now?

Was all this… nothing but a big mistake?

All his life, Harry had been repeatedly told that his greatest weapon was love. He only realized now that he might have actually wielded it without really knowing or understanding what it really was. He set his glass of wine down.

Was love the secret to playing the song? He knew that Snape loved his mother. Was the dark wizard thinking of the only woman he had ever loved whenever he made music? If only Harry could ask the man his secret…

' _ **What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever truly find out?'**_

But Snape was dead. And even if the dark wizard's ghost was indeed haunting him, there was no way that the man's specter would reveal anything of his emotions to Harry.

What about the Phantom then? Until now, Harry could not clearly define the man: illusion, dream, ghost, alter ego? If he existed only to Harry, and was a product of his mind… what gave the masked man his fire, his life? If Harry's own mind was at a loss, how was he creating this surreal, passionate yet seemingly rational being? Was the Phantom a depiction of what he could have been… what he could be? Was his maestro a reflection of his deeply rooted desire for a mentor? For Snape? Did he actually dream the ghost of his one true hero, his inspiration, to life? Was that even possible –even with magic?

He poured another glass of wine and downed it in one go. The sandwiches lay forgotten.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

About the same time that Harry was having a dinner of wine, another man was enjoying his own glass of the crimson liquid, perched on an old worn-out couch in the darkest part of Shrieking Shack's cellar. His thoughts were hovering somewhere far away.

"What is it that you dream about, Harry? What is it the keeps you going?"

If he were to be honest with himself, he did not expect the young man's answer.

"I never hated you. I envied you at one point, yes. But I never hated you." He took a long sip from the glass goblet in his hand. He let the bittersweet liquid stain his thin lips, slowly permeate his tongue, before letting it smoothly run along his throat. "You were a part of her –you carried the one thing that made me fall in love with her the first time I saw her –how could I?" He set his glass down and stood up from his seat. He crossed the room in three strides, towards the moonlit corner of the space that had been a huge part of his world in the past five years.

"She died –I held her in my arms as he had died –and I felt the world stop spinning. What sense was there in dreaming? I had asked myself countless times since that night. My heart died the night she was killed, and together with it, the dreams I have built since I've realized what it meant to do so." The pale light caressed his bare face as he turned his back on the shadows.

"Then came you. Dumbledore asked me to help protect you –he asked me to help train you and keep you alive. Suddenly, I had reason to hope, to live, to dream again." He shook his head, his dark eyes shining. "I told him that I would do it for her. In my mind, I had wanted to hold on to that very last part of her that existed. I had wanted to make more of, what in my mind, was a senseless death. I vowed to live for her; I vowed to help you live for her. I had thought that it was the right thing to do. I was so vested on holding on to something that could have been, something that never was… Don't you see, Harry? Do you not see how frighteningly similar we are? I blamed myself for her death like you keep on blaming yourself for mine. Every night that I sat down in front of the piano, I called forth that image of her, pale, dead in my arms, I did not realize –" A soft sigh escaped his lips. "How was I to know?" His pale hands reached for a familiar object from inside his robes. The stark white mask glinted in his grasp. Carefully, he placed it on –it fitted like a well-worn glove. "Her eyes haunted my every waking moment, even well into my sleep." His hands then landed on a golden chain that hung around his neck. He absently toyed with it for a moment, before he had tackled the task of putting on his black outer cloak. It was a well-rehearsed routine that came almost like second-nature to him.

"For so long, I thought that it was her eyes. I thought it was the past that pushed me to move forward." The Phantom smoothed the creases on his clothes before moving towards the foot of the bed that had occupied most of that dimmed room. A hidden circular trapdoor was his destination. Gently, he lifted the latch and pulled it open.

"Then that night, at the Welcoming Feast… your gaze met mine. I then realized that there was such a thing as a future for me…"

The masked man then descended into the dark hole in the ground that would take him back to the light –back to the life he thought head already gladly given up.

"No spell can reawaken the dead. But since when did you ever follow the norm, Potter?"

**01010101010101010101010101010**

As it was last night, Harry sat in front of the piano, waiting for his masked maestro to arrive. There was no definite time that the Phantom showed up –all that he knew was it was always in this room.

"You are thinking too hard, that is quite unhealthy." The voice, sinful as dark chocolate, smooth as silk, deep as the ocean, emerged from the shadows.

"Have you ever been in love?" Harry asked, meeting the eyes of the Phantom. The man looked as he did, whenever the young professor would see him –cloaked in midnight, masked in daylight. Harry no longer questioned what lay behind the half-mask. Honestly, he could say to himself that it wouldn't have mattered to him at this point if he did find out.

The Phantom paused in his steps, evidently startled by the question coming from his protégé. Harry noticed his master's reluctance and gave him a small smile. "Sorry, it was a rather personal question. You don't need to answer. It's just that I've been repeatedly told that my greatest power was love –and what you've said last night made me realize that I don't actually know what that meant." The emerald-eyed man sighed. "I reckoned that for me to be able to properly play 'Music of the Night', I would have to tap further into my emotions. If what you said was true, then I have to learn to understand what exactly it is that they claim to be my one true strength."

The Phantom quietly took his customary spot to Harry's right. He radiated the familiar warmth that Harry had begun to associate with the masked man. The maestro undid the clasp of his cloak and slid it off, revealing his usual white button-down. Harry noticed something else though.

"You've not worn that locket around your neck before," he gestured at the golden chain. The Phantom followed his line of sight. A pale hand reached up and fingered the circular pendant. His finger traced the engraved symbol of what appeared to be a flower that Harry was unfamiliar with.

"It's called 'Fleur-de-lys'," the masked man said, seeing Harry's inquiring gaze. He released the pendant. "I've always had it on. It is just the first time you've probably seen it."

"I suppose," Harry admitted, though he was fairly sure that the Phantom did not have the necklace on yesterday.

"Love is too encompassing," the masked man then said, his dark eyes catching the glow of the candlelight as he stared off into space. "It is enduring. It is eternal. It comes in many forms. Because of its nature, no one can ever say that they truly understand it…" HE turned to Harry. "However, if you are pertaining to romantic love –" he looked away again. "Once. Only once before."

Harry sensed the deeply-rooted emotion in that simple pronouncement. He tried to look at his maestro in a different light. How human could unrequited love get? Suddenly, the Phantom had just become more real to him. Did illusions fall in love? Did they feel? Did they get hurt? Harry tried to see through those deep dark eyes… What made up this enigma of a being? When their gazes met once more, the young professor decided to take the plunge. He looked the man in the eye and asked.

"Will you tell me how it feels like?"

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 6-

**01010101010101010101010101010**


	8. All I Ask of You

**Chapter 7: All I Ask Of You**

"Will you tell me how it feels like?" Harry asked. His naïveté drew a rare genuine smile from his mentor. The masked maestro poised his hands on the keyboard and began to play. Harry recognized the melody at once. He held his breath in anticipation of the words to the song.

" **No more talk of darkness, forget this wide-eyed fear/ I'm here, nothing can harm you, my words will warm and calm you…"**

The Phantom played and sang with his eyes closed, but the small smile on his thin lips never left as he did. Harry found himself drawn to it.

" **All I need is freedom, a world with no more night/ And you, with me, beside me/ To hide me and to guide me…"**

Harry felt the words make an indelible mark on him. He'd heard the song before, but never like this. The way the Phantom sang it made it come to life.

" **Now say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime/ Say you'll need me with you now, and always/ Promise me, that all you say is true…"**

It was a warm, inviting feeling –like the early morning sun on your bare skin. It felt very safe and comfortable, like being wrapped up in a soft, thick blanket on a cold winter night. IT felt familiar, like a hug from a dear friend…

It was a reckless, bold feeling –like jumping off the edge of a cliff. It felt dangerous and rebellious, like the thrill of possibly being caught out-of-bounds. It also felt strange, like an unexpected kiss…

" **Love me, that's all I ask of you…"**

The pressure was barely there, but it was all that it took for Harry.

The Phantom's lips were soft and gentle, as was the hand that cupped the young professor's chin. It whispered of feelings he had never known before. It wasn't his first kiss, but it should well have been. The rather chaste peck lasted for barely three seconds, but when Harry pulled away, it felt like it had been forever. He found himself staring once more into those haunting dark eyes. His heart raced with conflicting emotions. It was bittersweet, simple and grand, painful and pleasurable, certain yet unsure, elating yet subduing; He felt alone and comforted, adored yet neglected, desired and unwanted…

"I –I'm confused," harry whispered. The Phantom took his protégé's handsome face in his hands once more. "As you should be," he whispered right back, ghost-like fingers caressing the flushed skin with utmost tenderness. Harry stared at him.

"Is this the part where I close my eyes –and then you'll disappear?" The masked man's eyes shone.

"You know me so well." Harry closed his eyes. He felt the Phantom's hands leave his face. Then, a swish of a cloak was heard.

"Goodnight, Harry."

Then a soft kiss –another –lighter than air, brushed against his slightly-parted lips. Harry's fingers found its way up to his mouth, tracing the path the masked maestro left in his wake.

"Goodnight, Phantom."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

It was indeed a good night, and yet, the Phantom could not find it in himself to rest. His mask was off yet again, as was his cloak. The buttons of his shirt were also left undone, allowing a glimpse of his unglamored, scarred neck and chest. Death did not give him leave from the reminders of his youth's folly. He was lying on a rather stiff mattress, back in the cellar of the Shrieking Shack. One long, sinewy arm cradled the back of his head; the other, toying one more with the pendant that lay against his pale skin. Moonlight was now considerably absent, so he had allowed for a lone candle to burn in one corner of the otherwise pitch-dark room.

"I can't believe I forgot to replenish the concealment charm," he whispered to the unseen audience. "I cannot believe –I kissed him! Twice!" The pale hand left the Fleur-de-lys locket and rubbed the bridge of his aquiline nose. "What the heck was I thinking? I am supposed to get him back on track… I'm supposed to –" He shook his head with a disgruntled sigh. "Definitely not THIS! Am I really going to do this? What if the brat gets attached to me? Will I be ready for that?" The fingers on his nose then trailed down to his lips, where a ghost of a tingling sensation still lingered.

"Merlin, I did it –I kissed a man! I kissed Harry Bloody Potter!"

The Phantom's mind travelled back to the images of the young man's brilliant evergreen eyes, his flushed cheeks, his tousled jet-black hair, his creamy white skin… the softness of his lips… He groaned, sitting up on the mattress. He raked one hand through his long, ebony locks.

"I did not just –fantasize about Potter," he tried to tell himself, convince himself; but those images continued to traitorously invade his consciousness. The look of confusion on the emerald eyes, the attractive blush that crept up the young man's face, the tension on his shoulders, the small gap of surprise escaping those sweet, sinful lips when he had touched them… he buried his face into his hands.

"No… NO! NO!"

He knew he should walk away –the should walk away and forget that Potter needed him, needed his guidance… He should forget that Harry Potter even existed. Forget about the blasted Gryffindor getting attached to him… What if he got attached to the brat? Will he ever be ready for that? He angrily stood up and grabbed his cloak. He hastily put it on, grabbed his wand and headed for the room above.

"He wasn't ready. He'll never be ready –not that he had the time to get ready anyway… He was too deep into it before he even realized, and that, he knew, right after the first kiss.

"Curse you, Potter!" A jab of his wand set a broken down pile of wood that was once a chair, on fire. Another swish and flick sent shards of glass flying everywhere. "Damn you and your ability to reel me in and make me care!"

Okay, so maybe the villagers of Hogsmeade were right about the malevolent 'spirit' haunting the Shack for once.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was officially a professor for a week, the following day. But everything seemed like a blur compared to what happened last night. Of course, he knew he was gay –he had known that ever since he started having rather vivid wet dreams of strong, sinewy arms, broad, muscular shoulders, and long, lean legs… He knew he was gay when all he could think of while Ginny kissed him was wanting to throw up all over her. He knew he was gay when he began to get quite embarrassing urges just from listening to that smooth, velvety baritone mock his mental prowess and common sense yet again. But never, had he acted on those urges, well, at least not with another living, breathing man…

Okay, so the Phantom wasn't exactly living… but he was a man, right? It was just a kiss though (or two)… was the man even gay, or was it just a demonstration to answer Harry's earlier question?

But it felt oh, so real… so tangible… so, so wonderful. How could it be but an illusion? A dream? Harry did not know whether to dread or anticipate seeing his spectral maestro again. He spent the whole day half-wishing for time to stop, half-hoping it would hasten. He was floating on a realm of his own creation that he hadn't even been able to take off any points that day. And even when Draco made a sarcastic comment on the state of Gryffindor Quidditch Team's brooms, he had failed to hear it. Hermione was giving him concerned glances all day long that he did not even notice. And when dinner was over without him actually eating anything, he stood up soundlessly from his seat and made his way to his quarters.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

For the first time since that night they met, the hidden piano room was not empty when Harry arrived there at around past-eight. He breathed an almost inaudible sigh of relief, an unseen, unknown dread of a burden suddenly lifting off his chest.

"You came," he whispered before he even caught himself. He carefully closed the plain wooden door behind him, not once taking his eyes off the other being in the dim space with him. The Phantom was dressed in his usual, his midnight cloak already off and folded. He stood up upon seeing his protégé.

"You seem surprised," the masked maestro mused, walking towards the young professor. He stopped about a foot away. Harry found himself staring up at the man's face; the usual warmth, he noticed, was now accompanied by a faint scent of mint, cinnamon and sandalwood combined. It made him heady. He'd been in close proximity of the Phantom before… why had he not notice this then? It smelled familiar yet unusual, comforting yet exciting to his senses. Harry felt his face flush. How could this man affect him as such?

"I –I wasn't so sure –after last night, I mean…" Harry's green eyes looked away as his cheeks reddened visibly in the candle light. The Phantom paused. He took a step backward and surveyed his protégé intently, as if trying to see through his very soul. A few seconds later, the masked man sighed. "Forgive me then, -I seem to have crossed a line –"

"What, no!" Harry looked up, his evidently alarmed countenance meeting his mentor's gaze. When he realized this though, he looked away again. The Phantom slowly closed the short distance between them two. A pale, delicate hand gently turned Harry's face towards him.

"Tell me, Harry, why are you so insecure?"

A meaningful sigh escaped the emerald-eyed man's lips. His gaze locked onto the Phantom's enchantingly dark eyes. "I've never been kissed –by a man before," came the whispered admission. "I mean, I'm gay, but –" he shook his head with a half-hearted smirk. "I know, it's pathetic –"

"It –is – not." The Phantom silenced him with a finger on the lips. "Although I find it highly unbelievable that no man has ever touched your lips as intimately as I did." The long digit began to trace Harry's yet again, quivering lips. "Tell me my dear protégé, why is that? I find it hard to believe that no other man should desire to claim you –after all, no matter the preference, you are one that anybody would consider conveniently attractive."

Harry felt the familiar goose bumps rising from the masked maestro's ministrations. The simple touch on his lips was turning his insides into goo. "Would anyone really date Harry Potter, Vanquisher of Voldemort?" He asked his mentor back. "Let me rephrase that: Would anyone be truly interested in dating the man behind the reputation? I think not."

The Phantom's hands left Harry's lips and settled instead on his shoulders. "Is that why you are hiding in the shadows? Is that why you choose to alienate yourself?"

"I just want to be left alone," Harry stared at the hand on him before looking away. "In here, I am myself –not the hero, not the Savior, not the Potions Professor –just me, just Harry. No one understands that."

"I do, " said the Phantom sincerely, his low voice coming out as a soothing whisper. Harry looked at him with a small smile on his lips. "Of course you would, how could you not? You seem to be so real and tangible inside this room, but you're but an illusion, a creation of my own mind, aren't you? Pity if my own illusion fails to understand me,"

The Phantom visibly stiffened at that. Potter still thought he was an illusion?

"Sometimes I wish I did not have to leave this room," Harry was saying. "But I can't live down here forever now, can I?"

"No, you can't," the Phantom told him sternly. "That –is rather unhealthy –"

"I mean, who would teach my classes? Who would take care of Teddy when Andromeda's out? Who would coach the Gryffindor Quidditch Team and beat the smile out of Malfoy's face when we win?" Harry groaned. "People out there –beyond these walls –need me. They need me to live a life that is not my own. Sometimes it feels as if I'm two different people trying to co-exist in the same body, in the same realm. The world wants something –in my heart, I desire for something else." His voice took on a wistful tone as it trailed off. A pregnant pause ensued.

"Put your cloak on," the Phantom said, finally breaking the silence. He himself was fastening his own. Harry looked at him funny. "You're leaving?"

"We're taking a walk," his spectral master said, extending a hand in invitation. Harry eyed the proffered limb warily.

"I don't get it. You exist in my mind, in this room –"

"You can take it beyond this room," said the Phantom, staring his protégé in the eye. "I believe you can do it, Harry. You said it yourself. You have a life to live, you can't stay in here forever, tempting as it may sound now –" He gave Harry's hand a gentle squeeze. "If you are reluctant to try…" he reached for something in his pocket and held it up for his protégé's inspection. "You can put this on."

"A blindfold?" Harry cocked his head on to one side. The Phantom smiled. "It can help you focus on creating the illusion of me, if you may." Harry looked thoughtful. "I suppose, but won't I trip if I can't see where I'm going?" The Phantom made a move to stand behind the young man. He then leaned forward to whisper next to Harry's ear.

"You won't be alone. Just focus on me –on my voice –and you'll never have to worry about tripping."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

More than half the young man's face was out that night, as were a spray of stars belonging to the autumn sky. A masked, cloaked man held hands with a cloaked, blind-folded Harry Potter.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," said Harry, as they skipped beyond the threshold of the hidden room and onto the corridors of the dungeons.

"What is it that you are pressed hard to accept?" The Phantom's voice came through the blinding darkness. "That I could exist beyond the walls of that room?"

"It makes it feel so… real," admitted the young man. He heard the Phantom's chuckle lightly. "As I have said when we first met, I am as real as you make me, Harry."

"It's still weirdly creepy. I have never been known to have a well-disciplined mind. How am I able to create such a vividly tangible illusion?" Harry wondered.

"Maybe it is not your mind then," said the Phantom meaningfully. They were already through and out the yard. Harry felt the colder air of Hogwarts grounds greet him. The grass happily crunched under his boot-clad feet.

"So, you're not an illusion, but a dream?" Harry felt the Phantom's hand rest lightly on the small of his back. "I will show you something," said the masked man. Harry felt the blindfold coming off.

"Wait," he held on to the unseen hands. "If you do that, aren't you going to disappear?"

"I won't," came the reply, as the restraining cloth finally left Harry's eyes. "Open your eyes, my protégé."

Slowly, the brilliant greens heeded the call of that ethereal baritone. The sudden brightness momentarily obscured Harry's vision; but as soon as his pupils had adjusted, he was staring at something in awe. "It's –it's beautiful!" he gasped appreciatively.

He was staring at a huge, magnificent-looking tree, the trunk and branches of which, seemed to be made out of crinkled and coiled silver foil that sparkled in the night. The leaves looked like they were made out of tiny, delicate pieces of multi-colored cut glass. There was no breeze, but the glass leaves were perpetually in motion, clinking against each other. It sounded much like one of those muggle wind chimes. Harry looked around. They, and the mystical tree, appeared to be inside a clear glass dome that looked to be both solid and transparent at the same time. It seemed to be that they were inside their own private bubble –their tiny slice of the world around them. Harry searched for his master's eyes. The Phantom was eying the magnificent tree with something akin to fondness.

"What is this place?" The emerald-eyed man asked. "Is this a dream too?"

"One of mine," replied the Phantom. "I wanted to show you that even illusions can dream." Harry looked at his mentor, then at the tree, then back at the Phantom. He laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "I cannot say that I understand fully. All I know is that you're too good to be an illusion." The Phantom smiled at him. "I think the muggle phrase is: 'too good to be true.'" Harry shook his head.

"No, I meant it the first time." The young professor reached for the Phantom's hands and firmly grasped it in his. He stared deeply into those fathomless irises. "I think –I think I already know the answer to my earlier question. I think I already know how it feels to –"

"Harry –" The maestro found himself suddenly speechless. He knew this could happen. He knew it shouldn't happen. But with those startlingly brilliant eyes on him –full of life, passion and innocence –how could he not? "Harry, close your eyes –"

"That time again, huh?" harry smirked. "The Phantom's disappearing act?" The masked man shook his head. "Just close your eyes." And Harry did. As it was last night, the kiss was gentle and chaste. But now it held so much more emotion than Harry had ever felt in his entire life. He found himself responding to his master's exploring lips. The kiss deepened, and suddenly, Harry found himself drowning in inexplicable sensations. The line between fantasy and reality disappeared… in that little slice of his made-up realm, Harry found himself not caring anymore. If falling in love with a made-up illusion of a man was madness, then he'll gladly commit himself to St. Mungo's.

The kiss felt like it lasted two lifetimes –two seemingly contrasting eternities –two, which Harry would both not mind reliving. It had to end at some point in reality, however. He felt the Phantom pull away. Harry had wanted to open his eyes badly to see the other man off, but he knew that it was not how things worked.

"Goodnight, my Phantom," Harry whispered to the unseen maestro. A rustle of cloak was heard, then one more lingering, parting kiss…

"Likewise, my Harry."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 7-

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	9. Past the Point of No Return

**Chapter 8: Past the Point Of No Return**

Harry did not know how he got back to his rooms, but he did wake up in his four-poster the following morning.

' _Must be part of the illusion_ ,' he thought, as he dressed for that day.

But one thing was surely not an illusion.

He was falling hard for his spectral maestro.  _'Not an illusion, but a dream,'_  he amended. He buttoned the rest of his robes on and for the first time in ages, chanced a glance at his reflection in the charmed mirror.

"Wonderful, dear," his image said. Harry smiled.

"Wonderful, indeed."

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"Someone looks happy today," Hermione greeted Harry at the breakfast table that Friday. "Is that a new robe?"

"This old thing?" Harry looked at the scarlet number he had on. "I bought this when I had accepted my Potions Mastery certificate. I just didn't find time to wear it." He shrugged as he took a piece of toast and began buttering it liberally. To Hermione's other side, her husband Draco snorted.

"Finally flaunting your true colors, Potter? Had enough of Slytherin green?"

"Don't listen to him," said Hermione. "Red happens to be an excellent color on you, Harry. It brings out your eyes more. And I'm glad to know that you're still a Lion deep down." She then smirked uncharacteristically. "You'd better get me that Quidditch Cup, Potter –or there'd be hell to pay!"

"You don't even like Quidditch, Mione," the young Potions Master pointed out. The bushy-haired Transfiguration Mistress glared at him. "Not when this git over here won't stop bragging –" she gestured at her husband. Draco smirked.

"Potter here maybe a legendary Seeker, but Merlin knows that I am a better Captain."

Harry's eyes fired up with something akin to resolve. "Wanna bet on that, Malfoy?"

The blonde Defense Master exchanged looks with his wife discretely. This Harry Potter seemed more like the one they knew before. The emerald-eyed man appeared to have the life back in him all of a sudden. Whatever it was, it could only mean good. "You're on, Potter. Whoever wins the Cup by the end of the year gets an all-expense paid trip to wherever the winner wants to go." Harry smiled genuinely.

"Then be prepared to spend for a ticket to Tahiti, because I am going there this summer."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was whistling under his breath by the time dinner was served in the Great Hall. He greeted Minerva McGonagall who sat to his left. "Good evening, Headmistress."

"Evening, Professor Potter. How is everything so far? I'm afraid we haven't gotten the time to catch up yet since you arrived. Things are quite hectic around here after five years."

"I'm still adjusting, but all is well. It's very different seeing Hogwarts from a perspective other than that of a student." Harry reached for his goblet of pumpkin juice and took a sip. "All is well."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Minerva, mimicking him. "And your accommodations? Are you quite certain that you wish to stay in the dungeons? If not, we can still arrange –"

"It's perfect," Harry cut her off. "The laboratory in my quarters are adequate. It's quiet there." Minerva looked like she was about to say something else, but the tone of finality in Harry's voice discouraged her. She sighed. "Very well. If something –if you changed your mind though, do not hesitate to let me know."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The masked man was traversing the bowels of Hogwarts Castle later that night, when a tabby cat crossed his path. He stared at it for a while before sighing. "What is it, Minerva? I need to be elsewhere soon."

The cat changed its form to a bespectacled woman with grey hair up in a tight bun. Her lips were formed in an even tighter line. She glared at the man. "You will not scare my Potions Professor away," she said sternly.

"Are you getting any complaints now?" The masked man smirked. "And you are aware that your esteemed Professor Potter had warded his rooms against ghosts, are you not? What is there to dear? I gave you my word not to cause him any bodily harm."

"No," said the witch. "And those wars would be useless against the living as you know very well –"

"I am dead, Minerva. Do well and remember that." The masked man said with a hint of warning in his voice. The witch frowned.

"How could you just throw everything away like that? Don't you think five years is more than enough time to wallow in the shadows of your past?" She shook her head. "People care, Severus. I know I made vow to protect your secret, but –" A heartfelt sigh escaped her lips. "You do know that Harry blames himself for your death, right? You are aware of how he's been these past –"

"Potter –blames himself for everything," he said. "And please do not call me by that name. That man is dead." He turned away from the witch. Minerva stared at the man's back, a sad look crossing her face.

"I did not even want to give Harry your quarters, but he insisted. He's the only one availably qualified to teach in your absence. If you ever decide to take your life back, the quarters will be your again." The man took a step away from her.

"He can have it." He began to walk away.

"Will you just let him waste away then?" Minerva called out to him. The masked man paused in his steps and faced her. "You mean like me?" He smirked when she paled. He turned to leave once more.

"Never," he whispered to himself. "Not while I am around."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was once again in front of the grand piano when the Phantom arrived. He smiled at the masked man. "I was beginning to wonder if my ability to create your illusion has disappeared. You're running quite late tonight."

"Forgive me," said the maestro, taking his midnight cloak off. 'Even Phantoms such as myself get unforeseen detentions." Harry laughed. "And what, pray tell, caught you unaware this fine night?" The Phantom paused in his motions before sighing, "my cat." And Harry laughed harder. "A very likely story." He stood up from the bench and crossed the room to get to the masked man. He looked up at the Phantom, his otherwise innocent-looking bright green eyes, shining. "Can we try something else tonight?"

The maestro looked at him contemplatively. He lifted one hand to brush a few stray strands of jet-black hair from his protégé's face. "Does it have anything to do with the scarlet robes you are wearing today?" Harry blushed. The Phantom chuckled. "Red is an agreeable color on you. It brings out the green in your eyes more." When the young man turned impossibly redder, the masked man decided to change the subject. "So, what do you have in mind?"

"I would like to test a theory," said Harry, as he drew a strip of black silk cloth from his pocket. Without further ado, he wrapped the blindfold around his eyes. The Phantom looked on curiously.

"Would you like to go out for another walk?" He asked his protégé. Harry's smile widened.

"Not really."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The Quidditch Pitch was especially calm that night. Harry held his Firebolt Infinity in one hand, his wand in another. The Phantom stood right behind him. Had he not been wearing a mask, a worried look could have been seen on his face. "Are you really going to do this?" He asked the blindfolded man. Harry turned to look in his general direction, his eyes still obstructed by the black cloth tied around them.

"If you're as real as I make you to be, then we won't be having any problems." The young man quipped.

"I still think you're mental," the Phantom sighed. "When your own mental illusion tells you that your idea is crazy, it is very prudent to listen"

"I will take that into consideration," Harry smirked. He lay his broom flat on the grass and extended one arm over it. "Up!" The Firebolt Infinity hovered about three feet off the ground. Then with his wand, he tapped the grass surrounding his feet in a circle. The Phantom looked on in interest. And, as if sensing his curiosity, Harry explained his gestures to him. "I've placed a combination of a homing and a cushioning charm. Should I –" he paused to mount the broom, "Or we –fall, it would endure that we land on this soft, safe spot." Then, with a hint of pride in his voice, he continued. "I invented it during my Charms Mastery. Its patent is pending, so I still have time to name it. Somehow, calling it  _Homeland Charm_  doesn't quite sit right with me."

"I think I underestimated you," the Phantom admitted, awe in his tone. "You have a Mastery in Charms as well?" Harry chuckled.

"It was hard getting concurring Masteries in just five years, but I managed. It might have something to do with my fear of failing Potions –admittedly, it was a fallback in case –" the young man shrugged with a smile. "And only my own mind would doubt me. Relax. This is safe as it could be. The International Quidditch League has sanctioned its use for professional matches." Harry then corrected his grip on the broom. "Now get on behind me," he told the Phantom. Harry felt the man's weight and comfortable warmth settle behind him. "Hold on to me," he ordered the spectral master. A pair of arms wrapped loosely around his waist. "Tighter. At the speed we'll be going, you'll fall off that way."

"Tell me again why I had agreed to do this," the masked man grumbled.

"You're my Phantom, you can't say no to me." Harry jested.

' _Indeed,'_  the Phantom whispered to himself.  _'If Potter only knew the truth in that statement…'_

"'Kay," Harry finally said. "On the count of three… 1… 2… " Then, they were off. Everything became a blur… the moon, the stars, the occasional cloud, the trees in the distance, the mountains from afar… And suddenly, the Phantom understood how it meant to be free. There was something to be said about trusting your life to a piece of wood and some twigs.

"You'll have to steer!" Came Harry's exhilarated voice. The Phantom immediately slid one hand off of the young man's waist to grip the handle. His pale fingers met Harry's calloused ones and comfortably molded itself against it. Together, they attempted to guide the flying contraption. The masked man had never enjoyed flying on brooms before, but he knew enough to be able to avoid any oncoming traffic, late into that night, should they encounter it.

"Can we at least slow down?" The ethereal voice asked. His reply came from a whooping Harry Potter. "Are you kidding me? Going at a breakneck speed is the best feeling ever!"

"But when you're blind-folded?"

"I'm not worried, that's what I have you for!" Came the shouted reply. The wind was slapping harshly against their faces as the Firebolt Infinity cut sharply through the relatively clear night sky. "I trust you!"

"You do?" The Phantom shouted back. "Why?"

"I don't know –I guess I just do!" Was the amused answer. "I mean, you're practically me, right? Although you seem to be more rational than I," Harry laughed. He was enjoying this immensely. "And you seem to not like flying as much." He shook his head disbelievingly. "Do you know how creepy it is to actually fall in love with an illusion you created yourself?" The Phantom froze at that –was it but the wind against his ear?

"What –what did you say?"

"I'm in love with you!" Harry shouted against the strong, flapping wind. "I'm bloody in love with an elaborate illusion!"

The masked man felt his almost non-existent heart stop beating completely. It was one thing to know –it was another thing to actually hear it said out loud. It made it more frighteningly real. "Harry, stop –"

"What?"

"Stop this thing and get us down –"

"But –"

"NOW!"

Harry nudged the broom as the Phantom steered and landed them into a perfect dive. The masked man hastily dismounted. Harry sensed the aggression in the man. He too, dismounted before shrinking the broom and placing it back in his pocket. "Is there something wrong?" He heard a rustle of clothing.

"Remove your blindfold," came the ethereal baritone. Harry hesitated. There was a hint of underlying dread in that tone. "I don't think I can," he offered. He heard a sigh.

"Just do it, please."

Slowly, Harry removed the small cloth and pocketed it. His eyes were still closed though.

"Open your eyes and look at me. Look at me Harry, and see…" The bright emeralds took little time in adjusting. Harry found himself looking at the Phantom's solid form in front of him. "I can still see you." The maestro approached him and reached out to gently caress his protégé's cheek.

"I am no mere illusion, Harry." He gently cupped the young man's face in his hands and stared deeply into those arresting eyes. "Look at me." Harry felt the sudden urge to touch the man, to see how real he was. His own hands landed on the Phantom's masked face.

"You're so much more than an illusion to me," he whispered, meeting the onyx eyes. "Sometimes I find myself wishing that I could just dream you into life –but how?" Harry shook his head. "How? I know it's not right. It's not right to hold on to something that never was, something that will never be." Tears began welling up in his eyes. He reached up to wipe them away, but the Phantom beat him to it. "Cry not, my Harry."

Harry stared up at him. "I hope I did not –" He took a deep breath, trying to keep the tears at bay. "I know there is nothing to –" Then, another. "Please don't go yet."

The Phantom caught the young professor's shaky hands in his. He sensed the uncertainty, fear and apprehension in his protégé's voice. Nevermore had he wanted to assuage Harry's doubts than at that moment. "Not while you need me, Someday you will no longer do so, but until then…" He kissed the hands he held. "There are things that need explanation –and one day, you will wake up from this wonderful slumber, asking me, asking yourself, questions." The masked man sighed meaningfully. "One day, it will all become clear. I will dread that day, anticipate it… but for now, I will be selfish." He met the green gaze steadily. "Will you allow me to kiss you?"

Harry knew the truthfulness of the man's words. He knew it would come –that day when everything will end: the illusions, the dreams, the fantasies. If only he could stop the clock and make time stand still to this very moment… but not even magic could do such a Herculean task. Time will come when he will regret and laud this day. He knew it would come –he would have to face it when it did –but until then, he would hold on to this very moment. There was a reason why 'today' is called 'present'. It was a gift meant to be treasured. He let his eyes drink in the sight of the Phantom, as if trying to commit each and every detail of the masked man to his memory.

"Will you be back tomorrow night?" Harry asked.

"And every night thereafter that you will need of me," the Phantom promised. Harry sensed the sincerity in that pronouncement.

"Then you may kiss me, my Phantom,' he declared. "And every night thereafter that you may wish to do so."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

The view from the Headmistress' tower was breath-taking, especially on a night like this. Minerva could not possibly sleep and miss the clear midnight sky. Her keen blue eyes gazed outside the window of her office, seemingly in deep thought.

' _Oh Severus, when will you realize that you are making a huge mistake?'_  She sighed. _'Five years have gone. Five, long, years…'_  Minerva shook her head as her thoughts drifted off. It was nearly midnight, and as powerful of a witch as she was, she was already getting on in her years. The War took much from Minerva McGonagall –she wasn't like how she was before it. She needed her sleep now.

The Headmistress decided to retire for the night, already feeling the brunt of the last five years taking its toll on her. She turned her back on her office window, aiming for her personal quarters. There was no denying that the end was near for her as well, but she needed to hold on for a bit longer.

" _I will keep my promise, Albus. I will help your boys.'_  She raised her wand to 'Nox' the light in the room when a distant blur caught the corner of her still-sharp eyes. She raced back towards her window. She gasped.

"Is that -? But –" Minerva felt her heart skip a beat. "How –why?" An inexplicable mixture of dread, relief and confusion coursed through her as she stared intently at the middle of the darkened Quidditch Pitch. A few seconds later, a soft smile drew against her aged features.

"Maybe not too long now, maybe not."

She went to sleep that night with a lighter heart.

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Harry held hands with his masked maestro once more, as they trekked the familiar path back to the dungeons. The blindfold however, remained in Harry's pocket. He was quietly watching the Phantom from the corner of his eye.

"I have never been subjected to such an intense gaze before. May I know why you desire to burn holes trough me with your lovely emerald eyes?" The maestro quipped. Harry reddened, but recovered quickly.

"Just making sure you're still here." The Phantom actually smiled at that.

"As if the death grip you have on me would let me go anywhere." He raised their joined appendages at eye level, as if to illustrate his point. The couple was now traversing the bowels of the dungeons leading back to Harry's rooms. The young man paused before they reached their final corner. "It's midnight soon."

"It is, the Phantom agreed. "Our rendezvous tonight ran quite late –"

"I had fun," Harry cut him off, still not letting go of his master's hand, "I've never felt this happy in ages." The Phantom eyed him curiously. "Indeed? I am honored to share this grossly enjoyable night with you then, Mr. Potter." Harry stared at the masked man for a moment, before breaking into a fit of undignified giggles. The dark-eyed master looked at him imploringly. 'Is there anything humorous about what I had just said?"

"N-no," said Harry, trying to rein back his chuckles. "It- it's just that for a second there, the way you said my name –"

"Mr. Potter?" The Phantom repeated. Harry stopped laughing as he shook his head in awe. "Merlin, you sound just like him –"

"Who?" The masked maestro stopped in his tracks. "Who is he?" He asked, knowing what the dreaded answer was to be. Harry gently let go of the pale hand in his. They have finally reached the walled entrance to his quarters. His fingers reverently caressed the damp stones.

"Remember that night when you offered to teach me? Remember when I asked for permission to give you a name?"

"Yes," answered the Phantom. "I believe that I told you that you may do so once you get past all the lessons I will give you."

Harry nodded absently. He turned back to the wall and whispered his password. "Phantom." The illusion gave way once more. Again, he grabbed his maestro's hands and led the man inside his quarters. He only let go of him when the stone wall had already solidified again.

"Severus Snape," said Harry, as he took one of the armchairs by the fire. "The man you remind me so much of… the man plaguing my constant reveries… and no matter how unfair it sounds, the man I wish you were." He buried his face in his hands. "This is so fucked up –"

"Tell me," a gentle hand from the Phantom touched the emerald-eyed man's shoulder. "Do you care for him, Harry? Is it me, your masked maestro, or this man you've lost that I stand for that has captured your mind and heart? Listen to your soul Harry, and tell me what you really feel."

"Which is harder to believe, that I've fallen for a dead man who hated me, or a supposed made-up illusion of him?" Harry asked him back, shaking his head. "It's not fair –"

"No, it is not," said the Phantom softly. "Life is never fair." He removed his hand from his protégé. "Sometimes, choices become inevitable, Harry." He then turned to leave. The young professor looked up at him. "Wait, you're leaving? Did –did I offend you by what I've said? If I did, I –"

"Never apologize." The Phantom shushed his stricken-looking student. "You are not to blame, Harry."

"Then why?" Harry stood up, crossing the width of the room to get to his maestro. "Why are you leaving all of a sudden?" The Phantom met the steady green gaze and sighed. "You are confused. I do not wish to contribute further –"

"Do you want me to choose?" Harry challenged him. "You want me to choose between a dead man and an illusion?" There was a pregnant pause before the Phantom spoke again.

"No. I want you to choose between the past and your future." The masked man closed their gap before planting a soft kiss on his protégé's lips. Harry found himself closing his eyes inadvertently, trying not to lose himself in the spell of the masked man's kiss. He eventually felt the man pull away. "Wait –"

The Phantom silenced him with a quick peck on both his closed lids.

"Not tonight, Harry. But I will be back when you are ready."

"Wait –tomorrow night," Harry called out, his eyes still closed. "Please see me tomorrow night. I will have my answer by then." He heard the familiar rustle of a cloak.

"Goodnight, my Harry." The Phantom said simply, then he was gone.

"Goodnight, my Phantom," Harry whispered to the empty room.

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-END OF CHAPTER 8-

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Concerns about Harry's obliviousness – you would not know unless you've watched the original musical, but the protégé IS supposed to be naïve. Add that to the fact that Harry is still in mourning for Severus and what the two of them could have been, it would cloud one's judgment as it expectedly should. I cannot take much space to discuss human psychology and grief in here, lest I risk getting this story taken down. You can either PM me for my thoughts on the subject or Google it yourself. Thanks.
> 
> Concerns about Harry's drinking problem – it is a passing phase. I don't know if it was clear in the first chapter, but Harry's drinking is not an addiction per se. It is a go-to coping mechanism of his when the going gets tough. His friends are aware of this unhealthy habit, but as was mentioned in the previous chapters, Harry is the type of person who shies away from concern and help because he is unused to it. Draco and Hermione know better than to poke and prod Harry, lest they drive him further into his shell. Until it becomes a life-threatening situation, they would rather not get involved.
> 
> Is Severus alive? – it is deliberately obscured. Severus' identity and circumstance is part of the mysterious allure of the Phantom. Like in the original musical, it wasn't clear at first if the Phantom was a ghost or not. If you've seen it, you would know the real score. Just a reminder though, THIS STORY WILL NOT FOLLOW THE PLOT NOR THE ENDING OF THE ORIGINAL. It is just an inspiration.
> 
> Is Severus gay/ bisexual? –it doesn't matter in my opinion. Love is love, gay, straight or purple… Harry is gay though, as was mentioned in earlier chapters. In this AU, Severus was romantically attracted to Lily, but that is immaterial now.


	10. We Have All Been Blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for continuously putting up with me and my typos. I do realize that there is a need for me to get a BETA –I just could not find someone who fits my erratic, spur-of-the-moment updating patterns. Thank you for the constant support/ feedback and honest critique. I hope you enjoy this update: CONFRONTATIONS PART 1! One more chapter after this then it's the epilogue! –C.

**Chapter 9: We Have All Been Blind**

Past or Future.

How will one ever be able to choose? The Past represented who we are, our identity, our soul. The Future on the other hand, held our aspirations, our dreams, our goals… But when does one's heart, one's desire, one's passion figure into?

It was almost dawn when the Phantom reached the cellar of the Shrieking Shack. The underground travel that normally took him a few minutes cost him hours this time.

' _Did I really just ask him to choose?'_  He asked himself angrily as he removed his white half-mask and forcefully threw it on his hard mattress.  _'What was I thinking?'_

But what was done has been done, and there was no turning back. The Phantom knew that no matter what happened –no matter what Harry Potter chose –the illusion ends tonight.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Deciding between two impossible choices was harder than Harry thought. On one end, was his passion –on the other, his dream. Could he ever let go of one of them?

Severus Snape was his past. The man had become his fuel, his drive, his soul…

The Phantom was his future. The maestro embodied his dream, his aspiration, his goal…

The emerald-eyed man tossed and turned in his bed until the sun came up. It was only until then that he realized why the Phantom was keen on giving him time to decide. Just when he thought that he had finally made up his mind, suddenly he is not so sure anymore. Could he really give up the memories? Could he stand losing the illusions?

One thing remained certain though. Harry Potter would not have his mind made up until the eleventh hour.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was buttering his toast that morning when a smiling Draco Malfoy came up to him. "Who's the mystery date?"

"Date?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "What on earth are you talking about, Malfoy?" The blonde grinned and gave his colleague a once-over. "You look quite rumpled. Busy night?" Harry glared at him but said nothing. Draco gave him a knowing look. "Oh come on, Potter! Don't play the coy game with me –I'm not Mione, for one, and two, we're too old for that. Now come on and tell me, who's the guy?"

"I honestly do not know what you're talking about, Draco. Now, either you explain to me what you are going on about or leave me alone. I'd like to finish my toast in peace," said the Potions Master. Draco rolled his eyes.

"It's not exactly illegal to bring a date to the school if you're a professor, you know?" He took a seat next to Harry and grabbed a cup of tea. "But really, the Quidditch Pitch at midnight?"

'CLANG!'

Harry dropped his butter knife. He turned to Draco, shock clearly etched on his face. "You saw me… What –what exactly did you see?" Draco raised an eyebrow.

"You and your mystery guy. I'm assuming it's a guy though, it was far too tell. But your red robes were a dead give away –"

"You –SAW –him?" All the color drained from Harry's face. "But –but how could you see him? He –he's –" Harry suddenly grabbed the collar of Draco's robes. "You're not lying, you saw him? Tell me!" People were beginning to look at the emerald-eyed man's sudden outburst, including the early birds among the student body. Among the faculty, only Vector was present, but she was off at the far end of the Staff Table.

"Ow –quit it, Harry! Geez!" Draco pulled his suddenly enraged friend off of him. "If you're worried about anyone finding out, my lips are sealed. No need to be bloody violent! I do know how to keep a bloody secret –not even Mione would know." This seemed to have calmed Harry down on the surface as the young Professor had released his blonde contemporary from his vice-like grip. However, Harry's face was still pale with shock, his green eyes, wide in disbelief. "You –saw –him –" he stood up from his seat, his form rigid and stiff, his feast of buttered toast all forgotten. He began to walk away from the Staff Table as more people began to trickle into the Great Hall. The Vanquisher of Voldemort's steps seemed mechanical and contrived, painful and unreal. Draco watched his friend, worry evident in his aristocratic features. "Harry? Are you oaky?" He called out. "Was it something I said?"

The young Potions Master did not seem to hear him though.

" _ **I'm no mere illusion, Harry… I am as real as you make me…"**_

Suddenly, everything just made sense to Harry.

" _ **I'm no illusion… I'm real…"**_

And suddenly, for some perverted reason, Harry just wished that it didn't at all.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Potions was cancelled for that day as Professor Potter had secluded himself in the dungeons since breakfast and refused to come out for any reason at all. He sealed his floo and blood-warded his chambers. Nothing short of Hogwarts herself, could possibly break into the enchantments he had placed. The school was told that he was sick –only Draco, Hermione and Headmistress McGonagall knew otherwise.

"Professor Malfoy, Professor Granger-Malfoy, what had happened?" A flustered-looking Minerva asked as she had rounded on two of her Heads of Houses in her office just right before lunch. Hermione looked genuinely puzzled. Her husband however, looked a bit guilty. The blonde DADA Master sighed.

"Must be something in connection to what I said earlier…" When he got sharp looks from both Lionesses, he quickly amended. "Honestly, I did not mean anything bad," Draco held his hands up in defense. "I was just asking him about the new guy he was seeing –"

"A guy?" Hermione clarified. Draco nodded.

"I told him I wouldn't tell, but seeing as the situation at present requires a judgment call –" Draco shrugged. "We've all been worried for Harry since after the war. And recently, he hasn't been himself. I was just glad to finally see him happy with someone for once –"

"Wait," Minerva interjected. "You saw Harry –with a man? When was this?" She asked. Hermione looked curious as well. Draco knew he had no choice but to tell them. "Last night, at the Quidditch Pitch –" Both witches gasped –Minerva more than Hermione.

"Did –did he say who it was?" Draco shook his head at the Headmistress. "When I had asked him, that's when he started acting all funny –"

"He did mention a guy," Hermione put in. "Not by name though, but someone gave Harry a thorn-less rose a couple of days ago –"

"A rose?" Minerva inquired. Hermione explained. "A red, thorn-less rose with a thin ribbon of black satin tied around its stem, It figures prominently in the muggle Musical 'Phantom of the Opera' of which, Harry is a fan –"

"So there is a mystery guy?" asked Draco. "But why all the secrecy? Harry knows we'll back him up 100%. What is there to fear about telling us that he's finally found someone? Why not tell us who this guy is so that we could properly meet him?"

"I doubt even Harry knows…" Minerva whispered, almost to herself. When her pronouncement was met by inquiring looks from both her former students, she made her own on-the-spot judgment call. "Hermione, what did you say was the significance of this rose was?" The question effectively steered the topic off-tangent.

"Its interpretation is open for debate," began the pregnant witch. "But more commonly, it is regarded as an expression of regret, remorse –and a reminder of unrequited love and devotion."

The Headmistress looked thoughtful for a while before sighing. She may have already solved this recent puzzle… only one way to find out. She turned to the other two with her in the room. "Let us just allow Harry time to deal. You both know how he is when pressured. Let us give him the rest of today. If tomorrow, things do not change, then we will intervene."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Inside his warded chambers, Harry was brewing up a storm –quite literally. For the past eight hours, he had almost managed to obliterate his practically indestructible personal laboratory, thrice. At first, it was when he had mistaken unicorn blood for Lethe River Water and added it to the base of his experimental lycanthropy cure. The unicorn blood reacted quite violently with the basilisk venom in his mixture. The resulting explosion melted a solid gold cauldron and turned his dragon hide gloves into cinders.

His second mishap was a much more classic 'chucking unknown objects into one's cauldron while no one was looking' kind of thing. Only this time, there were no Slytherins to do it for him. A frustrated Harry grabbed the nearest thing to him –which turned out to be a copy of Potions Monthly –and aimed for his simmering cauldron of Blood Replenisher. While he could not have made it as a Chaser on the National Team, Harry certainly knew how to land an unassuming periodical in a cauldron-full of volatile concoction. The said potion turned a sickly shade of vomit, before spluttering and covering all available surfaces with a sticky gooey mess. The potion itself was neither explosive nor corrosive, but the reckless and bold Lion in Harry just couldn't be suppressed. The third and final mishap occurred when Hogwarts' current Potions Master tried to clean his mess with a wand. Lesson #1 that all Potions Masters should know: Spilt potions and clean-up spells don't mix. Safe to say that Harry had been out of sorts when his hastily-casted 'Scourgify' almost shook the Castle's very foundations to the core.

So here he was, hours later –his hair messed up, his robes singed in places, bruises and scratches all over. The last time it had been this bad was on his first day of Mastery Class. He was so out of sorts that he almost blew up his master's house. Lesson #2 that all Potions Masters should know: Never brew when upset. It kills. Or at least, destroys other people's precious property that made them want to kill you.

" _ **I'm no illusion… I'm real…"**_

There was no other explanation to it. Harry left his lab, miraculously still in one piece. He headed for his personal office.

The illusion ends tonight.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Heavy, hesitant steps brought the Phantom to the walled entrance later that night. Dread was much evident in the deep, dark eyes that pierced through the stark white half-mask that he had on.

" _ **Which is harder to believe, that I've fallen for a dead man who hated me, or a supposed made-up illusion of him?"**_

"It is when they are one and the same," the Phantom told the night softly. He raised one hand and whispered the password to the dungeon quarters. "Phantom."

The wall did not budge.

"The quarters of the Potions Master are blood-warded," a soft but stern voice to his right said. "If he has failed to mention it to you, Professor Potter had also studied Warding and Curse-Breaking on top of his Masteries in Potions, Charms and just recently, Magical Zoology," a soft but stern voice to his right said. The masked maestro turned to face a smug-looking Minerva McGonagall. The witch smirked. "You promised you'd not bother him –"

"I'm not exactly doing anything, am I?" The Phantom shot back. "And what do you mean blood-warded?"

"For some reason, Harry was upset about something that Draco Malfoy said this morning –concerning you."

"Me? How can I have anything to do with your Golden Boy, Minerva?"

The Headmistress gave him a knowing look. "Does Quidditch Pitch at near-midnight ring any bells?" The Phantom paused. Minerva smiled at the man's reaction. "Does Harry know, Severus?"

"What –does it have to do with –with Draco?" The masked man asked haltingly. He had a very bad feeling about this. Minerva raised an eyebrow at his tone but answered nonetheless. "Apparently, Draco saw Harry with a 'mystery man' last night at the Quidditch Pitch –as did I. The view from the new Slytherin Tower is about the same as from my quarters. From a far, it was hard to tell, but as Draco said, Harry's bright robes identified him easily. He asked Harry who he was with. Harry's reaction made me think that maybe, he did not quite know –" Minerva went on with her exposition, but the Phantom failed to hear past half of it.

Draco saw him. Someone else other than Harry saw a supposed illusion from the said young man's mind…  _'Bloody –'_

"Of course, I knew it was you." Minerva was saying. "Your mask was a dead give away –"

"Where are the ward stones of Hogwarts?" The Phantom cut her off. "I need access –NOW!" The Headmistress gave him a calculating look. "You will right this wrong, Severus Snape –"

"Just tell me where the damned stones are!" The masked man said angrily. "I did not mean him any harm! I had wanted to help him –not –not this! It was not supposed to be like this, Minerva."

"Hermione Granger told me about this flower," Minerva said calmly. "The thorn-less rose –you gave it to Harry. Does it mean what I think it does?" A long spell of silence enveloped the whole of that deserted dungeon corridor, until the Phantom finally broke it.

"Yes, yes it does."

Minerva finally gave the man a genuine smile. "The ward stones are now in that abandoned Potions Classroom that Neville Longbottom almost obliterated in his third year. Hogwarts still recognizes you as a former Headmaster. It will grant you access without me." Dark eyes met her blue ones.

"Thank you," said the masked man sincerely. Minerva scowled at him.

"Think hard about what you will do once you see him tonight. Think really, really hard, Severus Snape. This may be the right time to finally help your own self as well." She then relaxed her face before giving the Phantom an understanding look. "He will be hurt, no matter what you decide upon, do remember that. Good luck." Then, she began to walk away until she had finally disappeared amongst the shadows and the Phantom could see her from his spot no longer.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

It was half-past ten. Harry sat alone by the fire in his office, deep in thought. A bottle of wine was upended beside him, the last of its contents now in the glass that he held. Every so often, he would glance at the deep blood red liquid. He would swirl it inside the crystal goblet, before inhaling its aroma then finally taking a sip. He would let the bittersweet nectar linger by his lips, before passing it over his tongue and down his throat. This elaborate ritual had been going on for hours.

"I know this wine is real –I could see its color. I can hear it swishing around the inside of my glass. I can smell its intoxicating aroma. I can taste its sweetness. I can feel it as it goes down my throat. How can it be not real? The longer I consume it, the more I take in, the more I can feel it overpowering my senses –heightening them, numbing them. How can it be all an illusion?" The monologue had been repeated countless times to an invisible audience. It always ended in one conclusion.

"It never was."

The young professor allowed the last of his wine and set the glass down. As soon as he did though, he felt his wards shifting. Even in his alcohol–induced stupor, Harry was on the alert. He whipped out his wand, aiming to curse whoever dared –and managed to –break into his wards when he had made it clear that he wanted to be left alone. With a slight sway in his steps, he stood up. He hadn't even made it a few inches when his vision spun and he felt the ground beneath him shake. His knees buckled –and had there not been arms that suddenly materialized behind him, he would have passed out on the cold stone floor of his dungeons.

The Phantom gazed at the evidently drunken young man in his arms. "You should not drink if you cannot hold your alcohol well," he said softly, shifting his protégé's weight to rest on his chest. Harry, upon recognizing the deep voice, tried to push his masked mentor away. An angry emerald glare was thrown in the Phantom's direction.

"None –of your bloody –business!" Harry spat out heatedly as he struggled to break free from his mentor's surprisingly strong grip "How the heck did you get in here anyway? I've out up bloody blood wards!" He had barely managed to get away from the man when his legs trembled again. He fell back against the Phantom's sturdy chest. The masked man sighed. "Let us get you seated, then you can tell me why you all of a sudden decided to wage war on an innocent bottle of Merlot –"

"You –think –this is funny?" Harry asked him angrily. With one great effort, he had managed to land himself on one of the nearby armchairs. The Phantom looked on in sincere concern. He moved to follow his protégé, but the young professor already had his wand pointed at the masked man's heart even before he could come closer. Harry's green orbs blazed. The Phantom's however, remained neutral. He eyed the wand in his mentee's hand.

"Impressive stance for someone drunk."

Harry scoffed before launching into a cold, heartless, laugh. "I'm about to hex you, and that is what you say?" The Phantom held his gaze. "Are you now?" Harry shook his head in disbelief.

"You must think that I'm  **that**  stupid," he breathed. "Okay, maybe I was, but –" his grip on the holly tightened. "If I can see you, hear you, touch you, feel you –then you must be real, am I right?" The Phantom hesitated to answer back when Harry silenced him with a jab of his wand against his mentor's chest. "If you can hold me, excite me, comfort me –" Harry stood up to his full height with lesser difficulty this time. "If you can hurt me –"

"Harry, I –" the Phantom began softly. Harry took a step closer towards the masked man and gave him a cold glare. "I can't believe how blind I have been." He then scoffed. "If you –can hurt me –what prevents me from hurting you too?"

The Phantom froze. "Harry –"

The younger man raised his wand higher, the beginnings of a spell forming in his mind. "One…" The masked maestro held his ground. "Two…" Harry's determined eyes met the dark gaze. "Three!"

A violent jet of red light shot from the tip of the phoenix feather wand, heading straight towards the direction of the Phantom. The masked man's eyes stared at the oncoming assault, ready for the impact… But it did not come. The wordless 'Rictumsempra' whizzed past by him, missing his left ear by a centimeter and hitting the clock on the mantelpiece behind him. The antique was blasted into smithereens. The dark eyes followed the path of the spell. He then turned to a seething Harry. "I would have to say that your aim is spectacular. Had it not been, my face would have been obliterated instead of that clock –"

'SLAP!'

"Why did you not step out of the way?" Harry yelled as his hand connected with his mentor's cheek. "You could have died, you dolt!" Did you really think that I wouldn't figure it out?" The Phantom gently touched his stinging jaw. It would most definitely bruise. "It does not hurt –"

'SLAP!'

"STOP IT! Stop saying that it doesn't hurt!" Harry screamed through gritted teeth. "Stop pretending that I cannot hurt you because you aren't real! Don't you get it? Your illusion is over! OVER!"

"Harry –"

'SLAP! SLAP'

"You're not real?" Harry was almost out of breath now, both from shouting and the physical exertion of hitting his maestro's now-rapidly reddening face. You said it yourself, you're no mere illusion! You're not real? You're but a dream? Say that to the blood on your lips! Say that –and tell me, WHAT ILLUSION BLEEDS?"

The Phantom's face indeed bled. A thin strip of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. A long finger followed the path of the crimson liquid. His dark eyes stared at the blood on his digit before looking again at Harry. The young man's cheeks were now run over by tears. "Harry," the masked man took a step closer. "I don't know what to tell you." He reached out as if to touch the young professor, but the latter backed away with a shake of his head and a soft sob.

"And here I was, thinking that I was merely losing it… But what do you know? I'm not crazy,' another sob escaped his lips. "Just stupid. You must be laughing your ass off when you're alone –"

"That's not true." The Phantom declared stiffly. Harry laughed at him. "What else isn't true?" He challenged his mentor. "The music? The dreams? The illusions? The kiss?" Harry's hollow chuckle rang in the cavernous room. "I bet you aren't even gay." He then began pacing around the room. "Who sent you to play on the poor, gay recluse of a savior? The Prophet? The Ministry?" He scoffed bitterly. "I bet that would be a great story, don't you think? 'Harry Potter Falls in Love with Imaginary Man –A Tell All!' I bet that would earn you a bonus. You're such a great actor –"

"No one hired me," said the Phantom. "You do not know what you are talking about."

"Don't I?" asked Harry testily. "My friend saw you last night at the Pitch." He stopped walking. "When your illusion is corporeal, it must be that you have a string mind. When your illusion has emotions, it must be that you have a genuine heart." He then stared the Phantom in the eye once more. "But when you illusion can be seen by someone else, guess what? You suddenly realize it isn't an illusion anymore."

The Phantom sighed. He purposely grabbed one of Harry's hands. "My intention is not as nefarious as you think it is."

"The rose… I should've doubted you then… What illusion can produce a tangible object?" Harry shook his head. "You must have done something to me… to make me somehow overlook the fact –to make me believe –to make me fall in –" Harry looked at the hand on his before looking away, his eyes still shinning with tears. The masked man doubled his efforts. He reached for the young Potions Professor's other hand as well.

"Look at me, Harry."

Harry, as always, when he heard that ethereal voice, was torn. The Phantom noticed his indecision. There was still a chance in all of this. He will not fail the young man. He will not make the same mistake he did five years ago… No matter what happened after that night, he told himself, no matter what choice Harry made, the masked maestro would make things right.

It was time, indeed. There was no turning back.

A gentle hand guided Harry's face, and the young man suddenly found himself looking deep into those mesmerizing eyes of obsidian. Beyond the pain, beyond the betrayal that plagued his heart, Harry felt that familiar, inevitable warmth coming from those dark depths.

"Look at me, please, my Harry," the Phantom pleaded. Harry heard the words rip through the shields he had so painstakingly erected around himself –straight through his heart that the man now in front of him had already capture completely.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 9-

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: How was it? Up next: Chapter 10: Stranger Than You Dreamt It–The BIG Reveal.– it will be up sometime next week. Don't miss it!


	11. Stranger Than You Dreamt It

**Chapter 10: Stranger Than You Dreamt It**

"Look at me please, my Harry." The Phantom whispered, his eyes never leaving his protégé's. "I am real because of you –"

"Please don't give me that crap." Harry countered. "You were real even before you met me! Who are you really? And don't tell me you're a professional masked Phantom earning a living by mentoring lost souls!" The masked man's lips curved up into a smile.

"I was dead before I met you," his hand caressed Harry's tear-stricken face. "I had a life not worth living. I escaped and embraced the shadows. I was nobody until you christened me back to life."

Harry felt the sincerity in those words. This man spoke of the truth. "Why hide behind an illusion? Why lie to me? Why me?"

"There are secrets best left untold. There are realities far stranger than dreams. There are truths too painful to discover. I have disappointed you. I have hurt you. I had wished to do you no further harm by burdening you with my past. "The Phantom sighed meaningfully. "Clearly, I was wrong. Instead of protecting you, I –"

"I should hate you," Harry pushed him away. "I should hate you and tell you to leave me alone." He shook his head. But I will be lying to myself if I told you that it is what I want." He met the Phantom's eyes once more. "I need to know the truth. Show me your face." The Phantom hesitated.

"Harry, I –"

"No, show me." The young man said forcefully. "I need to know. All my life, things have been kept away from me and it taught me one thing. The truth may hurt, but it liberates." Harry moved closer to his mentor and reached up to touch the man's bemasked face gently. "Show me who you really are. I need to know the man behind the mask –the illusion."

A war was waging inside the Phantom's very soul, but he knew he must stand firm. He held Harry's hands in his and guided him towards the direction of the birch tapestry. They stopped right in front of the door to the hidden room that witnessed most of their vulnerable, passionate moments –whether alone or together.

"Harry, I need to do something before I reveal myself. Will you let me?" The maestro asked, gesturing towards the piano room. "I would like to play for you, here, in this very room where it all began. Will you let me? One last time before the illusion ends?" A quiet nod from the protégé led them inside.

The room looked like it always did. The small, dimly-lit space welcomed the pair. The Phantom took his spot on the bench after removing his midnight cloak and loosening the top two buttons of his white shirt. He rolled the crumpled sleeves up to his elbows. Harry moved to follow him to take his usual perch on the man's right, but the Phantom stopped him. He waved his hand, and a softly-cushioned armchair materialized by the doorway. He motioned for Harry to take it. "Tonight, you are not my protégé, but my audience." He explained simply before turning to face the gleaming ebony and ivory keys once again.

" **Softly, deftly, music shall caress you/ Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you/ Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind/ In this darkness that you know you cannot fight/The darkness of the music of the night…"**

Harry sat, watching the Phantom play, transfixed. Within him, an epic battle commenced: the Past and the Present collided. Images of that vivid memory six years ago burned into his eyes as he witnessed this present-day concerto unfold before him…

" **Let your mind start a journey to a strange mew world/ Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before/ Let your soul take you where you long to be/ Only then can you belong to me…"**

But which was which? The young professor felt the confusion unsettle him, as the tow seemingly different visions tried to meld in his mind. He closed his eyes and let his heart see instead…

" **Floating, falling, sweet intoxication/ Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation/ Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in/ To the power of the music that I write/ The power of the music of the night…"**

There, in that tiny corner of his mind's eye, Harry finally saw… He felt his heart stop beating completely. His eyes shot up as he jumped from his seat. Slowly, he approached the Phantom. The man was still p[laying with his eyes closed. Harry stopped, about a foot away from him –his eyes shone, his lips quivered, his hands shook as he reached out for his mentor's shoulder.

" **You alone can make my song take flight…"**

"H- How?" Harry's voice broke. "How is it –that you're here?" he asked, disbelief clear in his tome.

" **Help me make the music of the night… of the night…"**

The Phantom finished playing. He met his protégé's questioning gaze. "Harry –"

"It's you, isn't it?" said Harry. "It –is- you –oh, Merlin…" He was trembling violently now, fat tears raining down his cheeks. "Oh Merlin, how could I have not seen it? It is you –the piano, the papers, the riddles, it's you all along –"

"Harry –" The Phantom stood up from the low bench, as if wanting to approach and envelope the clearly upset young man in his arms. But as he drew closer, Harry backed away –as if in a mixture of both fear an disbelief.

"That –that night –I saw you… That very first night –" the young man stepped backwards until he was flush with the plain wooden door. "But –but how? Why?"

The Phantom felt an invisible punch directly at his heart, seeing Harry look so broken and afraid. Nevermore had he wanted to take the emerald-eyed man in his embrace and kiss those tears away. But he knew this would happen beforehand –he would be patient, he would do this right; if not for himself, for the man he had hurt the most. He stopped in his tracks.

"Harry, could you summon your pensieve? There are –there are things… Please. I understand if you do not trust me now, but please."

Harry appeared to be torn between wanting to throw something and cry his heart out, but summon the stone pensieve he did. When the intricately carved basin landed in front of him, he took a seat in the padded armchair that he had earlier vacated. His eyes were still watery, but his face was set. He watched as the Phantom took out a wand and knelt in front of the pensieve at Harry's feet. Without breaking eye contact, the masked man pointed the tip of his wand at his temple and began drawing out threads of silver memories. The process had taken a full two minutes –quite longer that Harry would have expected. When the maestro was finally done, he pocketed his wand but remained in his position on the floor. He held his hand out to Harry.

"This will take a while, but I do hope it answers most of the questions in your mind."

Harry eyed the proffered hand once, before meeting the Phantom's eyes once more. Without looking elsewhere, he placed his own hand in his mentor's.

' _ **What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever truly find out?'**_

"Show me."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

_**A woman with long, flowing sable hair and beetle black eyes sat in front of the piano. Beside her sat a boy of no more than eight, playing the ebony and ivory keys with evident dexterity. The little boy looked exactly like the woman, his eyes were closed though as he ended his piece,** _ _Fur Elise_ _**. The final bars sounded and the boy had finally opened his eyes –they were shining as he looked at his sole audience.** _

" _ **How was it, Mama?"**_

_**His mother looked at him with fondness and pride. "Well done, Sevy. Soon, I will have nothing left to teach you." She reached out and gently brushed stray strands of inky black hair from her son's face. Little Sevy smiled.** _

" _ **That will never happen, Mama. There will always be things to learn from you."**_

" _ **Oh, but you are growing up so fast," his mama said, a wistful look crossing her eyes. "One day, you will no longer need me to teach you. You will start learning on your own –"**_

" _ **Like at Hogwarts?" Sevy asked excitedly. "Will I be going to Hogwarts like you? I want to learn magic too Mama, not just Potions and Music –"**_

" _ **Potions is magic as much as Music is, love. Do remember that," his mother said kindly. She then sighed. "I promise to do the best I can so you could attend Hogwarts. Your father may not be happy about it, but –" She kissed her son on the forehead and gave him a hug. "Just promise me that you will study hard, okay?" Little Sevy returned his mother's hug and burrowed further into her arms.**_

" _ **I promise, Mama. I promise."**_

**01010101010101010101010101010**

_**The young man looked to be about sixteen, but his features were far harsher than his real age would suggest. He sat underneath a tall oak tree, his long legs crossed at the ankle, his second-hand black robes gracefully spread around him. He had his nose buried in a worn-out copy of** _ _Utopia_ _**. His soft ebony hair was covering most of his pale face, as his fathomless onyx irises danced across the old, yellowing pages in front of him. The air around him was peaceful and calm. In this part of the grounds that only a few students ever knew about, he was able to spent time alone in quiet and solitude. He was well into his reading when he heard the crack of a twig –however, he did not move. His eyes remained on his book.** _

" _ **I thought you hated me to the very core of your being. I thought you could never forgive me, let alone talk to me. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be down at Hogsmeade with Potter and his cohorts?" The young man asked without faltering as he turned another page.**_

" _ **I =I heard about your Mum," a soft voice began. "I'm sorry to hear of what happened." The young man finally looked up. His vision was met by a wonderful apparition of flaming red hair and emerald green eyes. "I do not need your pity, Evans."**_

_**The young woman who stood in front of him looked like she was about to say something in reply, but she had just resorted to biting her lip. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sev." The young man she had called 'Sev' said nothing as he averted his steely gaze and focused on his book once more. The young woman he had called 'Evans' sighed before wordlessly turning to leave. When she had finally gone though, Sev looked up once more, his eyes following the path the young woman had taken.** _

" _ **I can never forgive myself either."**_

**01010101010101010101010101010**

" _ **You promised to protect her –them! And now they're dead! DEAD! It's all my fault!" A distraught man buried his flustered face in his pale hands. "She's dead, Albus –by my misguided volition –as good as if by my own hand!"**_

" _ **Severus, there is still time –"**_

" _ **A time for what, Albus? Lily Evans is dead!" Severus spat our bitterly at the old man he considered his mentor. Albus looked forlornly at the young man he had learned to care for more than as a former student. He placed a crinkly old hand on the man's black-robed shoulder.**_

" _ **Her son lives, my boy. Harry lives. There is still time to make amends. Help me protect Lily's son."**_

_**Severus met the old man's bright blue gaze, resolve evident in his onyx eyes.** _

" _ **With my life, with my whole bloody life."**_

**01010101010101010101010101010**

" _ **What were you thinking, Headmaster –encouraging him to go with you on your escapades –outside the Castle! No matter how laudable Potter's luck is in evading the Dark Lord's hand throughout his growing up years, that is just exactly it, luck! How do you expect a 16 year-old to defeat a grown wizard, much less the Dark Lord!" A grim-faced Severus Snape rounded on his mentor, and soon-to-be, murder victim. "You tasked me to protect him, to keep him alive, and yet you refuse to let me do my job!" He gestured at the Headmaster's shriveled up hand with a snarl. "Is it not enough that you let my soul get corrupted –must Harry's be forfeit too?"**_

_**A mild twinkle crossed Albus Dumbledore's eyes. "'Harry', my boy?" Severus snorted.** _

" _ **Of all the things I said –you latch on to the one –" he shook his head. "Tell me, Albus. Tell me everything I need to know to protect him or I swear –"**_

" _ **You have grown to care for the boy?" Albus asked him, the twinkle never departing despite the caustic tone of his Potions Master. "Severus, you must understand. Harry has a destiny to fulfill, details of which, I can tell you completely. You have to trust me –"**_

" _ **Like I trusted you to keep them safe?" Severus spat out heatedly before he could even stop himself. A dark shadow crossed the older man's features.**_

" _ **Severus –"**_

" _ **No, Headmaster. I understand how it goes." Severus declared firmly. "I am but a pawn in this war. You see all of us as chess pieces. Harry Potter is no exception" He turned to leave. "And contrary to popular belief, I have a heart. Potter may be his father's son, but as you have repeatedly elucidated to my face in the past, he is also his mother's daughter. Merlin save me if I do not live to see him fulfill his destiny. I owe it to his mo-" He took a deep breath and sighed. "I owe it to him. Good day Headmaster." He finally left the room.**_

**01010101010101010101010101010**

_**The Shrieking Shack was dusty as ever, grimy, deserted. The sun was about to set. A figure lay on the rickety wooden floor, pale and unmoving. From afar, it seemed that the man was no longer breathing, but upon closer inspection, a slow but steady, rhythmic but faint pulse could be felt against his wrist. The man was bloody –his inky black shoulder length hair was matted against his neck. He was supposedly dead, but by some twisted hand of Fate, he was not. It had been hours, perhaps days, since his back touched the dingy floorboards of that abandoned haunt.** _

_**The man's papery lids flew open all of a sudden, as his lungs took a sharp intake of painful, musty, pungent air –his first in what seemed like one too many lifetimes –in three minutes or so. A pale, long-fingered came to life on its own as it reached deep within the pockets of the voluminous black robes that the prone figure wore. A few seconds later, he had finally unearthed a small vial of pale blue liquid –it was half-empty. With much difficulty, the man unstoppered the small glass container and let the contents fall onto the gaping hole in his neck. Instantly, the torn muscles and vessels knitted themselves until only an ugly scar was left. The man still felt the pain, but with the blood-flow finally coming to a cease, it helped clear his head. He took another breath as the glass vial fell from his hand. He gritted his teeth as the expected symptom of nausea washed over him like a tidal wave. With a loud grunt, the man began his first attempt to move… He would need much more than a Tissue-Knitter if he were to make it… First, he must contact the only one left he trusted…** _

_**Minutes later, the dusty floor of the Shrieking Shack was clear once more. Hours later, the same figure would be taking residence upon the Hogwarts Headmistress' carpeted office floor. Days later, he would officially be declared dead.** _

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry's hands were still shaking, the moment he stepped out of the pensieve. The Phantom did not stray far behind him. The masked man's concerned eyes followed the young professor's every move. Harry was quiet, but it was evident how shaken he was. The Phantom approached him.

"Harry, I –"

"Five years! FIVE –LONG –YEARS!" Tears began to flow yet again from bright green eyes.

"Harry, there is something –"

"WHY? Why did you let me –why did you let me think –" Harry sobbed harder with each word, each word made it more evident how broken, how forsaken he had felt.

"Harry, please –"

"NO!" Harry yelled. "You will NOT tell me! You will not –SHOW me! Show me your face. NOW!"

The Phantom froze in his steps, a long, heartfelt sigh escaping his thin lips. One pale hand reached up to his mask –another, tentatively but gently rested on Harry's cheek. "The illusion ends tonight, Harry," the Phantom began. "But not this –never this –"

With one swift move, the Phantom pulled a shell-shocked Harry Potter into his arms and gave him a soul-searing kiss. The surprise of it all had stolen any possible protest from the young man. His eyes had been wide open when their lips touched, but as the kiss deepened, he felt all rationale departing him. Harry closed his eyes to the Phantom of his dreams kissing the life out of him.

The inexplicable sensations were there: pain, desire, pleasure, clarity, betrayal. Together, they made up a huge maelstrom of emotions that brought anarchy and unrest in Harry's heart and soul. It enraged him, excited him, emboldened him –and yet, it soothed him, calmed him, comforted him at the very same time. Harry was sorely tempted not to let go, but the tiny bit of logic that remained in him had won out. He pushed the Phantom away. In the soft glow of the candlelight, their eyes met once more.

"Show me," came the ringing command. The Phantom nodded.

"You wanted the truth, Harry. It is what you will get –"

"Show me," said Harry determinedly, affirming to himself his desire. "Show me my past, show me my future." The Phantom hesitated. "Harry?" The young professor took a step closer, his eyes never leaving the masked maestro's.

"You asked me to choose. And I am making my choice. And I choose –" Harry reached up and touched the masked man's lips with a gentle finger. " –Whatever, whoever is behind this illusion."

"Harry –"

"I've lived five long, painful years feeling lost, feeling alone, feeling forsaken –" he shook his head as more saline flowed from his eyes. "You've said it yourself, time will come when I will ask questions… when I will start to doubt… when I will no longer need you." He let out a meaningful sigh. "But right now, I just need this. I need you."

The Phantom raised one hand to wipe Harry's tear-stricken face with utmost care. "As I have said, Harry, I will remain for as long as you shall need me." He then gave his protégé one last peck on the lips before taking a step back for his big reveal.

The mask finally came off. Harry felt his legs turn into jelly. He had known what to expect, he really did. But nothing prepared him for this. His hands flew up to his gaping lips as a loud gasped escaped them.

"Se –Severus…"

The name was more of a prayer than a whisper for the past five years. He never imagined this happening. Not even in his wildest illusions, not even in his most coveted dreams. The man –his teacher, his mentor, his hero, his inspiration –stood before him, alive.

"Is –this an illusion? Please –tell me it's not –" Harry struggled to voice out his sentiments, his thoughts, his emotions. All he could think of was wish that Magic and Fate were not playing tricks on him. On the other hand, Severus Snape smirked just as he did five years ago, somewhat belying the relief otherwise evident in his eyes.

"I can assure you, Mr. Potter. I am as real… as you are."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF CHAPTER 10-

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: How was it? Up next: EPILOGUE: The Maestro's Reprise– Just HOW exactly will our story END?.– it will be up sometime next week. I will tell you now though that THERE WILL BE NO SEQUEL. You'll understand why I had to say that once you read the actual epilogue (grins evilly). Don't miss it!


	12. Epilogue: The Maestro's Reprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The EPILOGUE. It has been one amazing journey of music, mystery and magic I hope you enjoy the last hurrah for Music Of the Night as much as I did writing it. I'm still open to feedback and suggestions. You'll never know when a new tale would sprout from my convoluted mind. -C.
> 
> Note: The time jump in this fast forwards to end of term… around late May 2004.

**EPILOGUE: The Maestro's Reprise**

"The Quidditch Cup looks great in my office!" Hermione gushed. "Ooh… thanks Harry!"

"It does not," said Draco, looking quite put-out. Harry smirked.

"I won fair and square, Malfoy. Give it up!" Draco rolled his eyes and shrugged. "I suppose you'll be wanting that ticket to Tahiti now –"

"On second thought," Harry began, smiling. "Could you make it two? I swear you won't have to give me a Christmas present this year."

"Two?" Hermione's eyes shone. "Are you ever going to introduce your mystery man to us, Harry?"She asked. "Will you ever tell us anything about Erik Andrews other than his name?" Harry grinned.

"If I did, then he wouldn't be a mystery anymore, would he?"

**01010101010101010101010101010**

It was the last day of term. The students have already departed via Hogwarts Express. Harry was packing his trunk when he heard a knock on his 'door'. Quickly, he disabled the security. "Come in!" He yelled as he closed the lid of his trunk and made his way towards his outer office. There, he was met by a smiling Minerva McGonagall.

"Off to Tahiti then?"

Harry nodded. "I'll bring you back a straw hat, I promise."

"I'd rather have my Potions Master back after the summer break," the Headmistress told him. "I would hate to have to scour Europe for a replacement." Harry smiled.

"You'll have him back, Minerva, that's a promise." The young professor said. "I'm just taking a much-needed break, but I will be back after summer. I heard Hagrid is retiring from his CoMC duties and I would want to take over if you'd consider –"

"Wait!" Minerva exclaimed. "I cannot allow you to do that, Harry! I just mentioned that I needed you back as Potions Master! You promised –"

"I'm aware of what I have stated, Headmistress," Harry chuckled good-naturedly. "I said you'll have your Potions master back after summer –"

"But –"

"He'll be back, Minerva," promised Harry, his eyes twinkling merrily. "I will bring him back even if it means that I have to drag him all the way from the sandy beaches of Tahiti back to these dungeons."

Minerva's eyes widened as her hands flew up to her mouth. "You –you mean –"

Harry winked. "You'll have your Potions Master back. You'll have a new CoMC Professor too. Now all we need is to get Binns exorcised and replaced –Erik thinks so too."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

Harry was caressing the keys of the grand piano, a peppy little melody coming out of his efforts, when he was joined by another presence in the room. The emerald-eyed man smiled. "Minerva was here earlier. I told her I'm taking over Hagrid's post. She agreed."

"Indeed?" A smooth baritone asked, sounding surprised. "But who will teach Potions? Not another incompetent fool, I hope?" Harry rolled his eyes.

"Geez, thanks for your confidence in my abilities, love. Really." The young man then smirked. "My replacement is most certainly not incompetent, but her is a fool, that's for sure."

"Who is this? Do I know this person?"

Harry grinned. "He's only the youngest to have ever become a Potions Master in the history of the whole wide world." He paused to take in the shocked expression that graced his lover's face. "You."

"Me? What –No –" Severus shook his head. "Harry! What made you think that I would want –"

"Why not?" Harry challenged him. "Potions made you happy, Hogwarts, even teaching, I could tell… And besides, we've talked about this. You promised me that you would take your life back –you told me you would –"

"For you, Harry," Severus reiterated. "You, not them. To the world, Severus Snape is dead! How will a dead man teach? I do not wish to have the Prophet pry into my life these past five years. You may have successfully cleared my name, but can you imagine the ruckus this will all create? And what if they learn of our liaison? Do you want to be dragged further down by your association with me? I do love Potions, and even teaching those dunderheads to an extent –but it just isn't worth it. I'm contented with my life right now –"

"What life?' Harry asked him crossing his arms over his chest with a huff. "Who was the one who told me that a life in the shadows was not a life at all?"

"Harry –"

"And who says you have to be a dead man?"

"Would you want me to be Erik Andrews to everyone you know?" Severus sighed heavily. "Would you want to live that lie, deceiving all your friends? It's better this way. If I exist in the shadows, only to you –I have all I ever need, Harry." He drew closer and enveloped the younger man in a hug. Harry pushed him away with an exhale. Severus ran his fingers through his ebony locks. "Life would be easier if I never returned –as Erik or as Severus."

"It would not be 'life' at all without you in it, would it?" Harry said in a quiet voice. "And since when did I care for what was easy? Severus, Phantom, Erik –it never mattered to me, Past, Present, Future… it's you, it has always been you. Do you know what I want, Severus?" His bright green eyes shamelessly stared at its fathomless obsidian counterpart. "I want to share all of that with you without having to hide. I want to bring you back to the light, away from the darkness you have liberated me from yourself. I want you to have the same choice you gave me all those months ago."

"Harry –"

"And whatever it is that you choose, know –" Harry took his beloved's hands in his and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Know that you no longer belong to the shadows, not to the dark, not to the solitude, not to the night –but to me." Harry gently pressed his lips against Severus'. "We have two months in Tahiti. Let's make the most out of it. After that. You can decide on what you really want."

Severus returned the peck once before pulling away slightly. He looked at his younger partner with something akin to resolve, evident in his dark eyes.

"I do not need two months to know what I want, Harry. I do not even need a heartbeat." Severus gazed lovingly into those lovely orbs. "I know exactly what I want at this very moment –and that- is you. You make me happy. Wherever you will be, that's where you'll find me. And besides, what would happen to you if I wasn't there, eh?" He teased. Harry's eyes sparkled even more.

"So –so you'll go back to Potions? Teaching? With me? After the summer?" he asked excitedly. Severus smirked.

"Who says I left anyway?" Harry laughed.

"Yeah, my older students are wondering if I was somehow imbibing the spirit of the Dungeon Bat while I grade their essays." He shook his head. "And Draco's face when I let it slip to Mione that he had an irrational fear of elephants."

"That was the first time his father took him to the zoo," Severus explained. "I was part of the unwilling tag-alongs. He was five when the large beast came up to him and used it's nose to ruffle his perfectly coifed hair. I believe young Mister Malfoy wet himself out of fear."

"Oh, that is just priceless," chuckled Harry. "He's convinced that I somehow found a diary you left while snooping around."

"As if I'd keep something as frivolous as that." Severus huffed. Harry continued to smile until a thought crossed his mind.

"Hey Sev, who will you be though? I mean, what identity will you present to the world once we get back?" Severus uncharacteristically grinned before planting another kiss on Harry's lips.

"After summer… you'll know..."

**01010101010101010101010101010**

September 1st that following year was as calm and as chilly as the last. It was Harry's second year of teaching, his first as the CoMC Professor. The Sorting had just ended.

"I still think that you're mental," said Draco, who sat next to Harry, a napping six-month old baby boy nestled in his arms. The little boy had inherited the Malfoy blonde, thankfully, but it was a bit more golden. The baby's name was Scorpius Linus Malfoy. His godfather beamed at him, as his father berated the emerald-eyed man. "I mean, who in their right minds would rear those horrible monsters –and teach other people to do so?"

Harry scoffed.

"Buckbeak was nice. You were just an arrogant prat." He declared. The DADA Master rolled his eyes. "And you were a snot-nosed show-off," Draco retorted. "But that does not take away from the fact that you've gone completely mental."

"Ferret."

"Scarhard."

"Death Eater Spawn."

"Freak."

"Dragon Dung."

"Pot-Head."

"BOYS!" A bossy voice interrupted the two former school rivals' good-natured, age-old trade of insults. "Not in front of the students –especially not in front of the baby!"

"Sorry Mione," the two grown men chorused, much like recalcitrant children who have just been reprimanded. Hermione rolled her eyes before taking her sleeping child into her arms. She took her seat at the Staff Table between Harry and her husband.

"I wonder who the Headmistress found as your replacement, Harry? When I asked her, she merely smiled." Hermione gestured towards the middle of the long table, where the witch in question was happily talking to Pomona Sprout. A seat was left empty between the Headmistress' and Harry's. Draco shrugged.

"Whoever it is, I'm pretty sure that it is another incompetent fool. I mean, if there was someone else, I doubt they'd hire Potter here in the first place –"

"Hey, watch it, Ferret," Harry cut him off. "There is no one alive more qualified than me to teach Potions –"

"As I've said," Draco sighed. "Your replacement must be an incompetent fool. So unless the Headmistress had learned the dark ritual of summoning ghosts and had somehow gotten a hold of a human virgin sacrifice to bring back the specter of Uncle Severus –I mean, if Binns' ghost could teach –"

Harry choked rather violently. Draco looked at him curiously while Hermione glared at her husband as she thumped her best friend on the back. "Really, Draco. Everybody knows that it is not even remotely possible –Are you okay, Harry?"

"Y-Yeah," the emerald-eyed man recovered himself and turned to Draco. "A human sacrifice?" The blonde smirked. "Worry not, Potter. I doubt Uncle Severus' ghost would appreciate it much if we used you as an offering."

Harry reddened. But before he could even launch a retort, the doors to the Great hall opened. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing to see who the latecomer was.

The tall figure was heavily cloaked in midnight robes, his face was obscured by the shadow of his hood. He walked into the cavernous room in long, confident strides. When he had finally reached the foot of the Staff Table however, he stopped. And from out of the blue, the figure conjured a single red thorn-less rose in his hand. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be tied with a black satin ribbon. The cloaked stranger then promptly tossed it to a wide-eyed harry Potter who nevertheless caught it deftly in one hand. Next to him, Hermione was staring at the whole scene, her mouth agape. Draco just looked plain confused.

The rest of the Hall was suddenly abuzz –that was until the Headmistress stood up. She looked to be fighting back a smile as she cleared her throat and addressed the crowd.

"Students, faculty and staff… I would like to introduce to you your Potions Master –"

The tall figure reached for the edges of his hood and lifted it to reveal his identity. The midnight cloak fell to the polished marble floor… then, silence… utter, eerie silence…

Harry leaned back on his seat as the Great Hall collectively held its breath. He allowed a triumphant smile on his lips as he absently toyed with the delicate petals of the blood red flower in his hands…

Now, he knew.

**01010101010101010101010101010**

-END OF STORY-

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for sharing this wonderful experience with me, dear reader. Please feel free to take the time to leave a final note regarding your experience in reading this story. I hope to see you in any of my future works. In the mean time, you can keep in touch with me via:
> 
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> P.S. Talk to me. I'm a lonely kid.


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